Watch the Bed Burn. Lestat x Louis. Interview with the Vampire. Explicit. 21k words.
Itās the feeling of it, or - - no.
Not the feeling, not right away, notĀ first.
First, itās theĀ sound.
The crackle of the record, the swell of the strings, the purr of her treacly voice, oozing through the humid air to drip down the sides of his skull, and then - -Ā more.Ā His unmistakable hand on the piano keys, the violinās bow, the vibraphoneās mallet. A century of skill in the flick of a wrist and the press of a finger, an artistry born from decades of practice that eclipsed the fleeting fancy of any mortal existence. His words, his voice, hisĀ baritoneĀ the wind beneath her mezzo-soprano, carrying her across those climbing catguts to ricochet off his ear drums, and itās that that stirs the tempest of Louisā long-forgotten temper.
Weather to waves that push the sunken seas to stir, build,Ā crashĀ against the unmoving shore of his head, and it was Claudia ā no,Ā GraceĀ ā who had whiled away the afternoons of their childhood with books of Greece and its Apollo, itās Aphrodite, but itās Louis who feels himself suddenly Poseidon, the earth shaking beneath his feet as he yanks the record free of its needle to stride out into the hungry dark. Louis ā two legs and a leading hand on the hard edge of that vinyl ā who would render his body a trident as he cuts a path through the night, crossing corners, streets,Ā trafficĀ (and oh, are the cars different from when he last went out? In shape and sound and color? Heās been trying to hunt more, heĀ has,Ā but time ever blurs without - -Ā fuck) only to plunge into the Mississippi, and as the water slides around his body, he thinksĀ aināt thatĀ something?
His suddenly soaked shirt and the pungent putrefaction that fills his mouth, his form cutting, pushing,Ā penetrating.Ā The water, cold despite the hot breath of the New Orleans fall, cascading over him and under him, the silt rising to find him as the rot teases his lips, his nostrils, his damned and uncloseable eyes, because for once heās single-minded, single-tasked.Ā Lestat can play siren tonight, but Louis wonāt play sailor for him ā knows nothing but that as he battles the current to shove the record inside his waterlogged shirt.
He wonāt fumble his way to the rocks for a song and a piece of ass only to be swallowed whole, for he felt himself Poseidon for a moment in his house, a moment out of it, didnāt he? Still feels him in his bones, and if heās him (and let him be,Ā God.Ā Let him be that instead of the sirenās mark, let him be that instead ofĀ himself), he needs Demeterās ankle in his hand, his Amphitrite back beneath him. Needs to control the roaring sea inside him so he stands a chance of controlling himself at all, and the thought has his legs kicking and his arms scooping, the water billowing around him, and like this itās almost something close to flyāā
He knows what that had felt like.
Lets the air escape him like it had that night, but it aināt smoke and dust and sky that would choke him on the inhale, not now. Now itās the viscid sawdust and the silt and the sewage of his hometownās river, and the feeling, the familiarity, itĀ buoysĀ him. Lets him kick off the cloak of despondency and feel his way back into this odyssey, record tight against his chest as his arms work to pull him through the water, and he feels it then too. The anticipation, the dread, theĀ heat,Ā because he knows that at the end of this night (the end of every night to come), there can be and is only Lestat
The obligatory 1.06 fic. Louis brings Lestat home. He doesn't feel good about it.
