own the night

     lestat reaches up for the hand that seizes his jaw, fingers shutting firmly around his wrist. a habit of theirs. he holds onto him as if he needs to prevent him from retracting his hand again immediately. it feels like a test or a game, with both of them daring the other not to move. perhaps lestat yields first when he tips his head back against the wall, coming up for air and letting louis have a good look of the pure desperation on his face.  

     the brief respite gives lestat a chance to look at him as well. lestat smiles when he sees that his eyes are glazed over and the green in them has become almost nonexistent. a particular look he recalls but that he hasn’t seen in years. he wonders just how many nights louis has spent contemplating this move - if it is calculated or impulsive. he’ll have to ask. louis’ mouth is back on his before he has finished the thought. lestat hums something unintelligible against his mouth and reaches out to tug at beltloops of his trousers. he brings louis’ hips towards his own. then, boldly:

every day since their last encounter , louis had busied himself with building a life independent from the blond's whims . he did his best to become comfortable with the silence of an empty home , became familiar with his own voice and thoughts , freed of any outside influence , tried to find beauty in grieving all the things lost to the fire ... but , like the first time they had met , lestat would not let him . every time there was a screen , a radio , a magazine cover , there he was , beckoning to him through oceans and timezones . and oh , louis did his best to wait ; did his best to turn away from the reminder that his heart was alive and beating at a greater distance than was ever needed . HIS DIGNITY WAS AT STAKE . he should have waited .

but news of the end of the great european tour came and went and lestat did not appear by his doorstep or balcony or bedside . he did not reach out as louis had expected him to ( was he to be left alone in despair ? was the urgency not shared by both ? ) . he had not even set foot in dubai --- and louis' patience was not infinite .

There is a short pause before he takes the picture, but of course he takes it. Clearly, this is important to Louis, and Armand doesn't wish to try to shift him away from the topic at the risk of hurting his feelings in some way.

He knows what it means to create something, to be unsure of one's self and therefore of one's creations. To attach self worth to such a thing. If Louis had come to him a few decades earlier, he would have been devastated by his lack of interest in his plays. As it is, the love for his theatre has degraded to a point that it's only a slight pain, and even that, Armand doesn't want to inflict.

"The way the light hits him separates him from the background." He traces the outline, with his finger, not quite touching the photograph. It's artificial light, which makes the differentiation less pronounced, but he doesn't say that. He smiles slightly. "He looks young. The expression appears natural, not posed. Perhaps a bit infatuated. I would call him foolish in his infatuation, but it can't be helped."

He lifts his eyes to Louis again, away from the thing in the photograph. "It's a popular theme, in these times, in this place. The individual, separate from God or country, held in itself as something sacred. The audience would rather relate to someone than feel inspired to conform. Perhaps it's for the better, considering the recent troubles and the related artwork."

though he lingers close to the other man's shoulder, both of louis' hands slide into his pants' pockets. he is trying not to reach out and touch the theatre company's maître when he is lost in self-reflection. it would feel wrong to do so. SACRILEGIOUS is not the word louis would use, but it is the first that comes to mind. he tilts his head, shifting his focus back to the picture.

" i see a sorry excuse for a light source which just barely manages to touch the surface of something beautiful . " louis tries with an arched brow. levity usually seemed to help dispel whatever ghosts weighed armand down. " most of him is hidden in shadows , but the parts which are illuminated show something earnest . there's something real there --- " not an illusion. a real person of flesh and bone as vulnerable and lost in the world as the rest of them. louis gave armand a look then, no longer bothering to pretend he is talking about the picture in the other's hand. " makes me think if i keep trying maybe i can make out what it is . " he pauses, letting his eyes shift across armand's features, as if looking for something in his kohl drawn gaze, in cheekbones, his lips...

a soft little hum leaves the elder as he sits back in his seat , fingernails tracing the pattern of the wooden piano in front of him. it is the only thing he has brought with him back to that hotel in new orleans , his dilapidated shack now decimated by the hurricane outside. why not leave new orleans ? it is his home. he's never felt that way about any place he has lived prior. the life he built here with louis might be gone , but it would always hold his heart with a vice grip. with @masteredinstinct's urging to at least leave the hovel of broken wood he'd called home for seventy years &* let fall to disrepair , he retreated with him to the hotel suite louis booked to come visit , bloody wooden piano in tote. the staff looked at him for the mess he was -- head hung , robe tattered , skin near gray. he simply followed louis' lead. he can only be grateful it was to a hotel room &* not straight into the sun with claudia. he can practically hear her screaming in his head that it's what he deserves.

so now he is here , listening to louis talk about the recent events with armand. about the interview &* what would come of it. it had made lestat smile -- honest &* open , amusement sparking back some of the light in his eyes. not at louis' pain ------ no , never ------ but at the idea of the whole world knowing the secrets of the vampires. the vampiric laws , shattering in his fledglings hands. the same laws that killed claudia. that nearly claimed louis &* lestat. of course it would come around again. if they died because of it now , it seemed only fair. can't cross the same burned bridge.

louis' story comes back around to one thing ----------- lies. lies he'd told other ; lies he'd been told ; lies he told himself. what was real ?

❛   what part ? it seems to me . . . truth is subjective. how you tell it , how i tell it , how armand or mister malloy or anyone else will tell it ------------- ❜ a clicks his tongue as he looks out of the window towards the storm ripping away leaves off trees far below. ❛   parts of it are true. parts are lies. i wonder how our realities would shape them. what parts of our stories line up. ❜ nail taps against the keyboard absently. ❛   i've thought about it for seventy years. wondered when exactly i became the villain. ❜ a frown pulls at his lips. ❛ perhaps the whole time. ❜ head shakes , then he takes a deep , shaky breath.

the sound of rainfall did nothing to quiet the other vampire's voice , quite the opposite ; it made everything else feel quieter , more distant , like they were all alone in the world . louis only turns away from the window the face his guest when he hears lestat refer to himself as a villain . he shakes his head lightly at him . " that's not what i see . " though there had been a time he had envisioned the frenchman as an adversary , when he looks at him now he sees something frail , sees something needy . when louis looks at lestat he sees the trembling thing hidden beneath all of his beauty and bravado . he sees a creature desperate to be loved ... and to love in return . and he sees that too in him --- LOVE , OVERFLOWING . for better or for worse , when it came to lestat de lioncourt , love had always been certain .

louis did not react at the small jabs or humorous quips . his expression remained cryptic even when lestat listed all of the roles he had played in the past . but his brow did furrow at the thought of the world burning because of him ( again ) .

" i still wish you had told me the truth , lestat . " the vampire finally said , softly . he had lost his louisiana accent long ago . his words no longer carried any song in them . " --- for so long i fantasised about you finding me . everywhere armand and i went during our trips , every country we visited , i wished you'd step out of the shadows to greet me ... and i dreamt of the fight we'd have . " louis gave a couple of steps towards the centre of the room but was careful not to get too close to lestat lest old habits be conjured back . " i fantasised about everything i'd say and how i'd hurt you . no blade to your neck or witnesses , in those fantasies , i killed you with my bare hands . "

the distant rumble of thunder dramatically marks the end of that statement . and though louis' expression appears hard and impenetrable , when he speaks next , the vampire appears to sound beyond remorseful . " but i never woke feeling righteous or victorious . just like the first time i killed you , all i felt was --- inconsolable . " another step forward . louis gazes down at lestat's makeshift keyboard . " the years went by , you didn't show up , the dreams changed ... " hallucinations of the blond haired angel embracing him , encouraging him , teasing him through mischievous smiles only to comfort him later --- louis shook his head , too self-aware now to look the other man in the eye .