Creole Blood

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

Dark brows lift with surprise at the soft sound of her voice. What an odd holiday, Father's Day. He can scarcely remember how or when it came about— only that it falls all too well in line with the litany of holidays in this new era that would give the people a chance to celebrate, and drink, and buy needless commercial gifts.

...but Rose's presence fills him with a quiet joy, and perhaps a small buzz of pride, to be honored in the role of a father. He thinks back, for a moment, of the fragile and broken young thing he had once encountered; how fiercely he swore to protect her from the moment he saw her, to keep her close and shielded by his and Lestat's love.

Verdant eyes brighten in a soft smile as he looks up to find Sybelle before him, brush and ribbons already in hand. Such requests seemed to come fewer and more far between these days; and naturally so, between the never-ending schedules and Sybelle's natural growth away from some of their more juvenile routines.

But Louis is still the best braider in the household, and his chest aches just a bit with happiness as he sets his book to the side.

"Make no mistake— he did want my money." Louis frowns.

"That motive was at play from the very beginning, and for good reason. Fresh off the boat and with an elderly father in a new world territory— he may as well have been a leech in search of a host. And you must understand, it was not just money. It was the comfortable house in which I lived, the good-standing name which might ingratiate Lestat into the society of New Orleans which was so vastly different from the old world of France.

That he felt any fondness for me at all remained a mystery for quite some time. It wasn't until years later, once we'd moved into the townhouse, and he'd acquired money of his own (which he loved to flaunt), that I truly began to wonder why he never discarded or left me like he so often threatened to do.

Do I believe him when he claims to have fallen fatally in love with me from the start? Yes. Of course I do. Did I feel the same? Perhaps.

They were walking through a small section of the Pigalle, an arrondissment of Paris they had not visited together in decades. The buildings were loudly festooned with rainbows, unabashed in the tawdry and joyous celebration of Pride. It would have been easy to tease, to pretend he didn’t know what Louis was asking about, especially in this section of Paris, weighted with so many painful memories. Instead, he gave Louis’ hand a gentle squeeze, pulling him closer against a building and placing a soft, tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. My mother was my matchmaker, isn’t that a wonder. She knew before I did.” His voice was soft; Louis never talked about gender or sexuality unless forced, and his question shifted something between them. “It was natural, to love who I loved. But it was different for you, I know that. Tell me.”

With a sigh, he swallows down the instinct to stiffen and combat against the arms that hold him, the lips that so tenderly press against the corner of his mouth. But the alleyway is dark enough, and hidden from mortal eyes, and so perhaps if his lips curl into a soft smile as he softens into his lover's embrace, no harm will come to them after all.

The progress is slow, but he is trying.

"Your mother was a miracle, even then," he replies in astonishment at the thought of Gabrielle and her tremendous sacrifice for such a love.

"Yes. It was different for me." He cannot help the huff of laughter that comes from that complete and devastating understatement. "I tried not to think about it, but of course I...knew."

The night air feels so quiet, suddenly.

"My brother knew as well, though he never said anything one way or another. I mostly felt terrible for our mother, for having raised two bachelors."

Dark brows furrow in concentration as he stares at the rainbow reflection of a flag in a nearby puddle; anything to avoid the soft acceptance of Lestat's gaze that might kill him completely.

"...nothing of interest, I can assure you."

He furrows his brows, defensive, then—

"My brother gave me a rock, once. Just a rock, about the size of a quarter, perhaps a bit larger. Grey with white specks. I think he got it from the shore of the lake; he liked to toddle around and pick at all the little pretty things. He was six, I was eleven.