Gentleman Death

❛ A few nights ago I saw a two pups. Devastatingly adorable. ❜ In a frame-by-frame not dissimilar to the one happening now. Her in her fish bowl, being watched at the shoreline. He looks as harmless as they do.

She softens ⸺ on the face of it, the lingering gets a proper reveal and cements itself to her theory blooming. Why stay if not to swim? He warns; He worries. She, a solivagant, even amongst a crowd; no wonder she accepts this at its most petalsoft. He, a noceur spray of flowers — the gardenia's compelling scent, the evening primrose and it's nocturnal showtimes, the poison of moonflower, nightshade guising as jasmine. If he has thorns, where are they in eye-reach?

Finally, relief to the alamort ache that's accumulated in the non-stop wagging of her swimmers legs. She stands, beginning rib-deep. Her heartbeat dropped to a drowsy degree. Her blood calm.

The water becomes an irenic remedy again.

Idyllic marries idealistic, and makes an abstract of his 'lost'. She invites, this time with meaning instead of polite idle-talk.

A wolf eyes her still. Warm and delicate, palates of sterling and aurelian ensconce the senses in the lavish decadence of the human form. Skin that still holds the scent of the sun's ardor, flowers abundant in a field untouched by the greed of man. A memory embedded in the silence he holds it in.

Hands accustomed to the intricacies of corsets unlace his boots, socks tucked in among the tongue, he plants his feet on the sharp edges of his throne of rock to rise.

"What was it you felt when the wolves emerged from the forest?" Coat slips from his shoulders and takes his place, fingers at work on the buttons of his vest. Movement like the heaving sides of a beast eyeing its prey, unblinking. Preternaturally still in spite of.

"Was it fear?" Shirt piles among the rest, trousers pooling around his ankles with undergarments in tow. He takes the first step down to moss laden rock where water has worn away the jagged surface. The wet cold laps at his toes and he does not feel it.

"Par la grâce du poisson?" A rara avis. Inviting a stranger to her repose. No fear of the consequence? Ah- there it is. The vein in her throat at full bloom. The swell of not quite right settling in to quicken the flow.

Argent eyes travel the length of her still above the dark of her sanctuary borne as armor against his intrusion, inquisitorial in his pursuit he sheds his boots to sink his feet in to the ankles.

Even with all the sanctification meaning of cleansing life's walk with holy water is barely enough fodder to come.

❛ Je suis à la Villa Perrone. Vous les connaissez ? ❜

A fashion designer and his retired model wife; their villa is in moderate reach. Maybe he's residue guest dribble from what was left of their dinner party. Maybe he lives nearby. Maybe the pale dove belly of his gaze makes a read a fruitless feat.

She's Imbruglia's torn.

Head tilts, a curious anticipation quivering at the broken seal of lips. Her own, wet and fighting the tremulant hemisphere of the water's horizon. The budding of a rose in the warmth of an afternoon sun. It does not take a poet's infatuation to ponder the velvet of them.

She invokes a memory as bitter as it is sweet, as impossible as it is beautiful, Venus in the garden of Fabbriche di Careggine. A marbled beauty carved by attentive hands lost to the mindless sluggish march of time ever onward and the cruelty of man to create the divine and abandon it.

He reaches for her, fingers treading the silken surface short of his prize.

"S'était perdu en chemin." A hesitation and his hand withdraws, the clinging droplets holding fast to the pads of his fingers trail prophetic imprints along the dry stone beneath him as he leans back.

HIS  CRIES  QUIET  TO  SOMETHING  LIKE  little  sniffles,  involuntary  shoulder  shakes  and  a  breath  of  relief.  Face  tilts  toward  the  skies—the  ceiling  of  a  home  in  New  Orleans,  not  quite  the  same  as  the  past,  but  Louis’  not  here  to  relive  it.  A  wavering  gasp  of  pleasure  parts  his  lips,  leaning  into  Lestat’s  lovely  tongue  delicately  washing  away  all  that  red.   “  If  time  could  reverse  I  woulda  told  you  I  loved  you,  all  those  years  ago,  ”   he  breathes.   “  I  loved  you  back  then,  and  I  feel  it,  rushing  outta  me  now—  ”   he  hiccups,  sighing  heavily  beneath  a  rainfall  of  kisses  to  his  eyelids.   “  You  gotta  know   ...   you  must.  ”   He  speaks  like  a  dying  man,  and  he  might  be  without  Lestat  there. 

“  No  more  sorrys,  ”   he  whispers,  bringing  his  forehead  to  his  lover’s,  noses  slotting  side  by  side.   “  You’re  forgiven.  I  forgive  you.  ”   Louis’  mouth  hovers  over  Lestat’s,  nails  carding  through  the  wheat-blond  curls  pooling  atop  his  shoulders.   “  I  don’t-  I  don’t  wanna  be  stuck  in  the  past.  You  won’t  find  me  there—I  won’t  find  you  there,  ”   he  urges,  punctuating  his  sentence  with  the  brush  of  their  mouths.   “  Memory  is  a  monster,  but  not  you—not  you  ...  ” 

"Louis.." Murmured into the grinding desperation of lips happily ravaging his, happily, oh his heart soars to hear it! To the heights that bring tears anew, hands greedy in their clutching of hips that peel from him the most pathetically desperate of sounds that leaves him both breathless and full of life. He is a corpse returned to a state of living that makes existence bearable again.

You won't find me there. I won't find you there.

A tremor ripples down his spine, the endings of nerves firing rapid response to his lover's fingers tracing every ragged edge of his damned soul to stop them bleeding.

Memory is a monster, but not you- not you.

Sweet Louis, forgiving Louis, merciful Louis, memory a monster indeed.

But Lestat is selfish, greedy, starved. He is ravenous to kiss placations down a soft, twitching stomach. Fingers ease beneath the hem to graze the blunted edges of nails across his lower back, urging tantalizing hips downward to greet the rise of his own.

S01E07 | S02E07

❝  Who  am  I  without  you?  A  husk,  a-  a  poor  excuse  for  a  man   ...   Yeah,  I  hated  you—but  more  than  I  could  ever  love  him, ❞  Louis  seethes,  haunted  by  amber  eyes—his  life-stealer,  his  executioner.   ❝  And  even  then,  I  loved  you.  I  love  you,  ❞   he  anguishes.  Chest  rises   &   falls  with  shuddered,  struggling  breath.  Louis  shakes  his  head—he’s  fighting  it  but  he’s  failing.  Crimson  complements  sage,  tears  brimming  over  the  rims  of  his  eyes,  clinging  to  dark  lashes  as  he  weeps,  red  streaming  down  his  cheeks.   ❝  Happy?  It  was  all  spite.  A  fake  life—the  family  I  wanted:  gone   ...   my  companion   &   my  baby … gone   ...  ❞   Louis  grits  out. 

He’s  floundering  in  grief,  struggling  to  make  out  Lestat’s  face  when  his  vision  swims.  There  is  no  describing  the  churn  of  Louis’  stomach,  the  feeling  of  forever  dirtied  for  having  let  his  daughter’s  killer,  the  orchestrator  of  a  death  he  never  saw  touch  him,  taste  him,  love  him   ...   ❝  I  am-  I'm  sick  when  I  think  about  all  that  we’ve  missed!   ...   ❞   Louis  gasps,  throwing  his  arms  around  his  beloved’s  neck,  clinging  to  him  in  a  wavering   &   wet  embrace. 

His  lips  find  Lestat’s  pulse  point,  kissing,  suckling  its  rapid  beat  like  it  is  the  only  thing  tethering  him  to  this  world,  this  moment.  Louis’  mouth  wanders  the  crook  of  his  pale  neck—wetting  fair  flesh  with  kiss  after  kiss,  the  scrape  of  his  fangs   &   the  balm  of  his  tongue  to  lap  up  his  favorite  flavor.  Each  wordless  act  an  I'm  here  now.  I'm  real.  You're  real.  Tears  mingle  with  spit  and  blood  of  another  kind.  Louis  shifts  in  Lestat’s  lap,  thighs  clenching  at  his  beloved's  flanks   …   as  if  Lestat  could  float  away  at  a  moment’s  notice,  Louis  secures  him  there  to  the  confines  of  their  coffin—their  coffin. 

Auric curls shift with the tilting of his head, welcoming Louis' lips wherever they seek to land, cheek pressed to wetted cheek. Resentful of their physical forms barring him entry to the soul housed within.

My baby...gone.

It rakes him anew and raises from its poorly dug grave the guilt that wound itself around his heart like a rose bush and all it's thorns. Every half-step beat of it pressing against the fine point prick of them that no amount of time could assuage the pain.

"I'm sorry, Louis. I'm so sorry." What they'd done in anger, in grief, in hurt... Wounds begat wounds, resentment to resentment. Their carousel of passion not half-felt, a full breasted display of the meaning of one to the other inexpressible in any other form.

He would apologize another night, a thousand nights, a hundred thousand. An eternity of shame ahead to make amends for, carried with him always in that secret room of self hatred.

Lips caress the bow curve of his lover's neck, fingers winding 'round the bend of his jaw to lift. He laps up the streak of red smeared at the collar, up the glittering trail to kiss emerald eyes shut. Thumbs brush away the beads at the corners.

"If time could reverse...I would fix where it all went so horribly wrong." A defining moment perhaps different by viewpoint. He's had time to reflect. Plenty of it. Nothing but it.

Lestat's fangs leave his neck, leaving behind a dripping trail of blood as the wound slowly starts to close. It is not as fast as it would be for Lestat when Louis sustains himself on the blood of animals but he doesn't really care about that right now. Not when the pleasure he feels is so incredible, nearly overwhelming.

Forehead now pressed against Lestat's, he can see that lust in Lestat's gaze. That look in his eyes makes Louis' undead heart flutter in his chest, he always does enjoy the way Lestat looks at him as if he's the only one that matters.

"Louis..." Love abundant in the wardrum beating of his heart, his breath rapid against his lover's lips, he presses cheek to cheek. Hands roam slender hips, cradling the searing heat of skin between them, the slick mess pressed between them lewd and intoxicating.

He holds his lover for a long and quiet moment.

is my agony loveable?

By their fruit you will recognize them — but she sees not the ravin of wolf-skin. There's care in his attire.

❛ Demandez au poisson, peut-être? ❜

Polished etiquette among the chanterelles blooms? All the way out here? With no one else to witness but her and the night birds, she accepts it at par value. Decorous behavior agrees to a better swallow than the lack of. No room on the palate for rude; she had a full helping in the daylight.

She likes the lie-less nature of an animal. Honest to the very pulp and pupil. He's too far — and frankly being viewed at the wrong angle — to see the truth in his gaze. He's almost too far and buried on waterfalls sounds to hear the special lilt in his voice. Similar and dissimilar to her own;

— the mythical central France? Hard to place.

There's a nervose tickle behind the navel. A repose swathes it in a lake-hold instead. She disappears to a blur underneath, for a moment. Than resurfaces. A vertical treading, no-float. And kept to the deep.

❛ The water is warm. You are welcomed to it. ❜

"Par la grâce du poisson?" A rara avis. Inviting a stranger to her repose. No fear of the consequence? Ah- there it is. The vein in her throat at full bloom. The swell of not quite right settling in to quicken the flow.

Argent eyes travel the length of her still above the dark of her sanctuary borne as armor against his intrusion, inquisitorial in his pursuit he sheds his boots to sink his feet in to the ankles.

So for all you cowards out there talking shit, talking about taking a run at me, hear this now and hear it plain. I own the night.

Memory   was   a   pale   comparison.   Conversations,   kissing   with   a   figment,   a ghost,   cannot   satisfy   Louis   the   way   Lestat,  his   Lestat,   full   of   blood   and   flesh   and   bone,   speaks   to   him,   presses   palms   to   his   taut   abdomen,   the   small   of   his   back…   Louis   understands   why   Eve   did   it,   why   she   took   a   bite   of   the   apple   —   sweet,   tangy   juice   surging   over   her   tongue,   drops   escaping   down   her   chin   —   because   temptation   never   tasted   so   good.   But   is   it   temptation   if   one   wants,   desires   it   so   badly?

Louis   wants   this,   has   always   wanted   this.   The   last   decades   without   Lestat   are   a   black-and-white   film   reel,   devoid   of   color   and   sound.   Moving   through   this   world   without   him   was   like   wading   through   treacherous   waters   and   not   knowing   how   to   swim.

Cool   air   hits   Louis'   flushed,   fabric-tousled   body   upon   the   coffin's   lid   swinging   open,   giving   way   to   Lestat's   hands,   his   maker   —   his   creator's   sculpted   hands.   He   follows   the   guidance   of   his   companion's   touch,   easing   his   way   into   his   lap   like   magnets   drawn   together.   Lestat's   lips   at   his   revealed   collarbones   illicit   a   gasp   from   Louis   as   he   tilts   his   head   back.   His   fingers   scramble   over   his   lover's   clothes,   blindly   seeking   out   buttons   and   ties,   desperate   to   shuck   away   the   layers   and   layers   keeping   him   from   settling   somewhere   safe   within   Lestat's   ribcage,   hands   around   his   heart.

Blood   sings   to   blood   beneath   the   flesh,   Louis'   a   song   of   reconciliation,   reunion,   and   remembrance.   ❝ 77   years… ❞ he   cries.   It   is   no   time   for   an   eternal   being,   but   a   lifetime   for   Louis,   still   so   human   despite   his   transformation   more   than   a   century   ago.   ❝ 77   years   without   you, ❞   he   breathes   raggedly,   mind   occupied   by   warm   palms   searching   his   body,   a   searing   mouth   against   his   skin.   He's   tugging   away   at   Lestat's   shirt   to   reveal   the   pale,   fit   expanse   of   his   strong   chest,   carved   abdomen.

Louis'   eyes   sting   behind   his   eyelids,   burning   with   emotion.   His   mouth   wavers   around   his   words,   his   soft   puffs   of   delight.   ❝ You've   never   left   my   mind   —   a-all   this   time   you've   been   right   there,   right   here, ❞   he   bites   out,   taking   one   of   Lestat's   wandering   hands   over   to   the   soft,   umber   skin   of   his   chest   where   he   thrums,   pulses   with   life.

"I could have spared you..." The heartbeat as strong as a thoroughbred's, proof that he lives still. Lived through it. Survived. Endured. To come home to him in whatever capacity was left of him. A shambling mosaic of Louis de Pointe Du Lac rearranged to suit his suitor, come home to mend to find the proper order of the pieces he carried in his chest. Sorrow colors the fine crease of his brow, mutes the words on his lips. It is hard to breathe in the revelation.

"You would never have believed me." An apology pressed to the drum of his heart, thumb grazing soft skin as he places another, another, another. Trailing his reparation to the leap of that throat convulsing around his agony. Lestat can taste it on him. The yearning. The heartbreak, the betrayal. It is as bitter as he is sweet.

"Seventy-seven years in isolation, barely a life. I lied, Louis. I was not living. I was the dead thing you fled from that night, and that was all I wished to be without you." No sympathy wanted, only understanding. The knife so well lodged in his heart the last they saw each other, bleeding for seventy-seven years. It was what he'd wanted and, knowing or not, he'd succeeded.

"You wanted me to suffer and so I did. Never knowing if you would come back to me. Hope waned with every passing year that by its end I was sure your hatred was so complete...that even if you knew..." He had tasted death in his rebirth, a flirtation of it, but this torturous death without the relief of the truth of it had been far more painful.