#vam

The sheets are tangled from the way he's pulled you closer. Louis lies beside you, propped on one elbow, his hair falling wild around his face in dark waves that catch faint glints of candlelight. His shirt is open, the linen hanging loose on his chest, though he hasn’t yet made the move to shrug it off entirely.

You rest on your back, sheets drawn to your collarbone. You're not shy with him anymore, still, the gesture feels natural, a kind of softness after heat, as though wrapping your bare skin in cloth lets you lean into the feeling of safety.

He's watching you. He always watches, as though committing every line of your body to memory, as though memorisation could guard against loss. His gaze drags slowly from your face down to where your hand clutches the sheet, then back again. He does not smile, he rarely does, but his eyes are softened, dark and thoughtful, like he is trying to shape words but cannot yet find them.

You stretch a little, catlike, and your knee brushes against his thigh. The faintest shift of muscle tightens beneath your touch.

“Are you staring at me?” you murmur, breaking the hush.

His lips twitch, just barely. “I am,” he admits. His voice is low, warm, frayed at the edges, still rough.

“You make it sound like a sin.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Then we are both guilty.”

That pulls a sound from him, soft and close to a laugh, though he smothers it almost immediately with a shake of his head. Louis leans down instead, brushing his mouth over your temple, the tip of your cheekbone. He lingers there, his breath cool against your skin, the faintest scrape of fang hidden, controlled.

You’ve grown used to the differences between you, like the way his skin carries no heat of its own. You know it should unnerve you, that reminder of what he is, but it doesn’t. His restraint is as familiar to you as his touch.

He draws back just enough to look at you again. His hand trails along your collarbone, the weight of it feather-light, hesitant even now. Always hesitant, as if he fears pressing too hard, taking too much.

“You're very quiet tonight,” you say.

“And you would rather I chatter on endlessly?”

“I would rather you tell me what you're thinking.”

That earns you a long pause. His thumb brushes your shoulder, back and forth in a rhythm that betrays thought, a stalling habit.

“I think,” he says finally, “that I cannot quite believe you are here.”

You laugh softly, rolling toward him, pressing your forehead to his. “Where else would I be?” He doesn’t answer. You can feel the words he doesn’t say.

With anyone else, with anyone safer, with anyone alive.

Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes you in, as though he can anchor himself with the scent of your skin alone.

The candles gutter in their holders, sending shadows dancing over the canopy of the bed.

You let your fingers trace the line of Louis’s jaw, the strong cut of his cheek. His eyes flutter shut as you draw your hand lower, brushing the open edge of his shirt. His breath hitches.

“Will you always be like this?” you whisper.

His brows knit. “Like what?”

“So careful. So…” You search for the word. “Distant. Even when you’re beside me.”

Louis’s eyes open then, and the look he gives you is pained, fierce in its softness. “If I am distant, it is only to keep from frightening you.”

“You do not frighten me.”

“Maybe I should.” His hand stills where it rests over your shoulder, fingers curled tight against restraint. “You should run from me and never look back.”

“And yet,” you say, tilting forward to press your mouth to his, “here I am.”

The kiss is slow, drawn out, tasting of lingering sweetness rather than urgency. His lips part, tentative, and you take the lead, coaxing him deeper, letting your tongue brush his. When you draw back, his eyes are darker, unfocused.

“You are…” He swallows, falters. “You are temptation given form.”

“And you are ridiculous,” you tease, though your heart beats harder for the way he says it, like prayer and curse entwined.

You shift until you are nestled against his chest, his arm wound around you at last, protective and unwilling to let go.

“Louis?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever wish-” You stop yourself, words catching.

“Wish what?”

“That I could be what you are. That I could be with you… without limits.”

The stillness that answers you is heavy. His hand, which had been moving idly against your back, freezes.

At last, he says, “No. I wish only that you would never think such a thing.”

“Why?”

“Because I would not curse you to this. Because every joy would be drowned in sorrow. Because your soul is not mine to damn.”

You know it is useless to press him further; the subject is a wound he will not let you touch. Still, the thought lingers as you lay your head against him.

For a long while, the two of you lie there, suspended in that strange calm, his fingers drawing idle lines along your arm, your breathing steady. Sleep tugs at your edges, though you resist. It feels wrong to sleep when he never does, when he lies awake always, guardian and penitent both.

At last, Louis stirs. He brushes his lips across your hair and murmurs, “I must go out for a time.”

You shift against him, reluctant. “Now?”

He nods, looking at the shuttered window. “I need… air. A walk. I will not be long.”

“Do you promise?”

A shadow flickers across his expression. “I promise.”

You study him, that haunted face, those eyes that never truly rest. Then you reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair, and draw him down to you one last time. The kiss is slow, unhurried, but it makes his restraint falter just enough that you feel his teeth brush your lip before he pulls away.

When he rises, he smooths your hair back from your face, then gathers his coat from the chair. His silhouette in the candlelight is all sharp lines and darkness.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You lie back in the bed, still warm from his presence, and close your eyes.

You do not hear the other door open.

The hush of the room is not broken by the door at first, only shifted. Louis has barely gone. Surely the quiet cannot already feel so heavy, so strange.

But then there is a presence. You feel it before you see it, the way the air alters, as though shadows lean closer, as though the candle flames bow. A coolness slides across your skin, more deliberate than a breeze, more personal than a draft.

You open your eyes.

He is standing at the foot of the bed as though he had always been there.

Lestat.

Golden hair catching firelight, eyes pale and gleaming in the dark, a smile curving his mouth like the edge of a blade. He wears his beauty like armour, his presence like a performance, filling the room so completely that it seems smaller, suffocating.

You sit up too quickly, clutching the sheet to your chest. “You, how did you-?”

He laughs, low and amused. “You ask how, not why. Clever girl.” His voice drips like honey, sticky and sweet and cloying. He prowls closer, his boots soft on the carpet. “But surely you know the answer. I go where I please.”

Your pulse is a drum in your throat. “Louis will be back any moment.”

“Louis.” He sighs the name like a joke. “My darling Louis. So dutiful, so tragic. Always so sure he can keep what he loves safe if he only locks it away in shadows.” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that glitter far too bright.

You draw the sheet tighter. “If you’ve come to taunt him, you’ve wasted your time.”

“On the contrary.” Lestat moves closer until he is at the edge of the bed. He leans forward, resting one hand lightly on the carved post, bending to meet your gaze. “I’ve come for you.”

Your breath catches. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeats the word as though savouring it. “Because Louis clings to you as though you are salvation. Because he worships you with those mournful eyes. Because he loves you so very much.” The smile turns sharper. “And that makes you the perfect instrument.”

You try to back away, but the headboard stops you.

He tsks softly, like scolding a child. “You lie beside him night after night, aching for what he denies you. He holds himself back as though your love is sin.” His hand lifts, brushing the sheet near your shoulder, not quite touching your skin. “You deserve more. You deserve eternity.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Ah.” His grin widens. “But what you want and what you need are not the same, are they?”

You feel the air shift as he moves, too fast, too fluid—suddenly he is at your side, fingers brushing your hair back, cold against your temple. You flinch, but he holds you with a look, those pale eyes pinning you.

“Do not worry,” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you more than I must. And Louis- oh, he will never forgive me. But he will never let you go, either. In the end, I give him a gift he is too cowardly to grant himself.”

You open your mouth to shout, to resist, but he is already there. His mouth at your throat, teeth sliding against skin. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he will kiss you. Then the pain bursts sharp and white-hot, stealing any sound from your lungs.

You gasp, fingers pushing at his shoulders, but he holds you easily, as though you are nothing more than a doll in his arms. The pull is merciless. The world tilts, darkening at the edges. Heat flares, then vanishes, leaving only the pounding rush of your blood as it drains.

Your body trembles, weakening, the sheet slipping from your grasp. The sound in your ears is a roar, as though the sea itself is swallowing you whole.

Then, abruptly, he stops. You are limp against him, your head falling to the side. He shifts you back, holds you like a lover, and with his other hand he slices his wrist. The wound glows crimson in the dim light.

“Drink,” he commands, pressing it to your lips.

You turn your head weakly. “No-”

He grips your jaw, tilting your mouth open. “Drink.”

The taste floods you before you can refuse again, hot, metallic, electric. Your body convulses, your throat swallows before you can stop it. Fire races down your veins, a blaze that sears every nerve.

You hear him laugh, soft and victorious, as you clutch at him, as though drowning.

And then, blackness.

When you are gone from yourself, he arranges you carefully against the pillows, smoothing your hair back with a tenderness that feels obscene. His lips brush your forehead, almost a benediction.

“There,” he murmurs. “Sleep now. When you wake, Louis will be here to witness what I’ve made.”

His laughter lingers even after he has slipped back into the night. The room is silent again, save for the guttering of candles.

Your body lies still.

The door opens with a whisper of hinges, barely a sound at all, but it carries enough to stir the air and make the candle flames sway.

Louis steps inside, moving carefully, as though unwilling to disturb the quiet. His coat is damp at the hem, touched with dew from the river air, his hair mussed by wind. He carries the scent of night with him; wet earth, stone, the faint metallic tang of the city.

He closes the door behind him, eyes already searching for you. He expects you sitting up, waiting, or perhaps dozing lightly as you sometimes do when he lingers too long outside. What he does not expect is silence so deep it presses against him, silence broken only by the faint crackle of wax on the bedside table.

Then he sees you.

At first glance, you might only seem asleep. Your body lies where he left it, tangled in the sheets, your head turned slightly to the side. But something about the stillness snaps at him. He is at your side in a heartbeat, faster than breath, his knees sinking into the carpet as he leans over you.

“Mon cœur,” he whispers, brushing hair back from your forehead with trembling fingers. “Wake.”

You do not stir.

The sheet has slipped lower in his absence, baring the curve of your shoulder, the hollow of your collarbone, the pale line of your throat. His hand falters there, eyes narrowing. He sees it then, the faintest wound, twin punctures, already closing.

He jerks his hand back as if burned. Horror dawns on his face, hollowing it, dragging his features taut.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no-”

His hands hover above you but do not touch. He cannot, not yet. He knows this. He knows what it means, the drained pallor of your skin, the absence of breath, the silence where your heartbeat should be.

He staggers up, pacing, hands tearing at his hair, at his shirt. The realisation is a noose tightening with every second. Lestat has been here. Lestat has found you. Lestat has taken you.

And worse, his gaze snaps back to you, his throat tightening. You are not clothed. Bare shoulders gleam in the candlelight, the rise of the sheet too low, your body arranged as though someone else had positioned you for display. Rage strikes him, hot and black, nausea curling with it. Lestat saw you like this. Touched you like this. Took from you in the most intimate violation and left you behind for Louis to discover.

He makes a sound then, guttural, more animal than man.

In a rush he is at your side again, gathering the sheet, pulling it up over you with shaking hands, tucking it around your body as though modesty could be restored, as though dignity could be reclaimed. His touch lingers, cupping your cheek, his forehead bowing against your temple.

“I am so sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Forgive me. Forgive me for leaving you. Forgive me for letting him near you.”

You do not stir, but something is there, a flicker under the surface. Your lips part faintly as though for air you no longer need.

“You are not gone,” he says. His hands cradle your face, stroking your hair back, smoothing the lines of it with frantic tenderness.

The words tumble out in a fevered rush, prayers to a God he no longer believes in. He whispers in French, in English, half-formed pleas and apologies.

“Stay with me,” he begs. “Do not let him take you from me.”

The room is suffocatingly silent. The only sound is his own ragged voice, his own breath though he does not need it, pulled from him in sheer desperation. He presses kiss after kiss to your cold skin. Your temple, your brow, the corner of your mouth, as if contact might tether you, as if he can will warmth back into you.

For many long minutes he simply holds you, rocking faintly, as though he might soothe you even in your deathlike sleep. He pictures Lestat’s smile, Lestat’s voice mocking him, the way he would have touched you, positioned you. Rage coils tighter, but beneath it there is only grief.

He cannot undo what has been done. He can only be here when you wake.

It begins with a shudder.

Your body convulses once, violently, and Louis almost drops you in shock. He tightens his grip instead, pulling you against him, whispering your name like a litany.

Your eyes flutter open. At first, the world is blurred, a smear of light and shadow. The candles seem too bright, halos bleeding into one another. Your throat is raw, your chest aches with something you can’t name. You drag in a breath out of instinct, but the air is wrong; thin, useless, and it only sharpens the burn clawing through you.

“Shh,” Louis murmurs, though his voice trembles. His hand smooths down your hair, his cheek pressed to your temple. “You're safe. It's alright.”

Safe. The word feels foreign. Your body screams with hunger, with thirst, with need. Pain surges in every vein like fire flooding outward from your chest. You clutch at him, fingers fisting in his shirt. The strength behind it startles you, ripping linen with a sound too loud in the silence.

Louis doesn’t flinch. He only gathers you closer, one hand steady on your back, the other stroking down your arm. “I am here. I will not leave you.”

Your lips part. You want to ask what has happened, why your body feels aflame, why the world smells different, sharper, but no words come. Only a broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, slips free.

Louis’s face twists. He cups your jaw with one trembling hand, turning your face toward him. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I know. It burns. I know.”

You don’t know how you know he is right, but you do. The burn in your throat, the clawing emptiness, it isn’t hunger the way you once knew it. It is sharper, more desperate, a gnawing that promises to consume you whole if you do not answer it.

You lean against him without thinking, burying your face against his throat. You don’t understand until he shifts, baring his wrist to you. He presses it gently against your lips.

Instinct takes over.

Your mouth opens, and you bite. Not gently, not carefully, but with all the desperation in your body. His blood floods your tongue, hot where you are cold, rich, alive. The taste is everything. You drink, clutching his arm with both hands, as though it is the only thing tethering you to existence.

Louis gasps, head tipping back. His eyes close, his mouth parting with something like pain, something like relief. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Take what you need."

You can’t stop. The more you drink, the deeper the burn, the more desperate your body becomes. It feels endless, an abyss inside you that his blood only begins to fill. You cling to him, trembling, your mouth sealed to his skin, drinking until your throat aches from swallowing.

At last, Louis pulls you gently back, his hand at your jaw, his strength unyielding though his face is pale. “Enough,” he murmurs. “Enough, my love.”

You resist, a desperate sound tearing from your throat, but he strokes your hair, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice is firm, low, commanding in a way you’ve never heard. “Enough.”

And somehow, through the haze, you obey. You draw back, lips slick with red, your eyes wide and burning. The hunger still claws at you, but dimmer now, dulled to an ache instead of a scream.

Louis looks at you, and his face nearly breaks apart with the grief in it. Blood stains his wrist, trickling down his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His only focus is you, your trembling body, your wide, confused eyes, the way you cling to him even as you shake with pain.

You love him.

And Louis knows.

His arms tighten around you, almost crushing, as though he can shield you from the truth of what has happened. His mouth finds your hair, your temple, the curve of your brow, leaving desperate kisses as though he might reassure himself you are still here, still his.

“I'll help you through this,” he vows. His voice shakes, but the words are steady. “I will guide you, protect you, whatever it takes. You are not alone.”

The ache in your throat gnaws still, but you close your eyes and let the sound of his voice steady you. You cling tighter, not from fear of falling, but from fear of letting go.

Louis holds you as though he has been waiting his entire life to do nothing else.

“Louis…” Your voice is cracked, fragile. The sound of it makes him jolt, as though he had half-convinced himself you would never speak again.

He cups your face immediately, both hands steadying you, his eyes fever-bright.

You swallow, though it does nothing to soothe the dryness, the strange emptiness inside you. “It hurts.”

His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. “I know. The first hunger always does. But it will pass."

Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt. “What’s happening to me?”

The words crumble on the edges of panic, and you hate the sound of them, hate how small you feel in this moment. But Louis doesn’t falter. He leans in, close enough that your foreheads touch, his voice low and commanding in a way that brooks no argument.

“You are not dying, yes?" His breath shudders, but his tone sharpens. “He tried to take you, but you are mine. You are with me, you're alright.”

His hands hold you steady, his gaze locked on yours, as though sheer will can force the world into obeying him.

“Say it,” he demands softly, fiercely. “You are with me.”

Your lips tremble, but the truth spills out anyway. “I’m with you.”

His grip loosens slightly, smoothing your hair back, but he doesn’t let you go. His mouth presses to your temple, his voice quieter now but no less insistent.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” Louis says. His tone softens, but he does not let it waver. “You have every right to be. But you will not face it alone; you need only listen to me.”

Your eyes close against the sting of tears you didn’t know you could still shed. You lean into his chest, pressing your face against the torn linen, and he gathers you close again. His hand rests firm on the back of your neck, holding you as though shielding you from everything beyond this room.

The room has gone quiet again, save for the slow rhythm of Louis’s voice against your hair. His hand strokes through it, smoothing, steadying, and though the pain still coils sharp inside you, his presence presses it back.

That’s when the latch clicks.

You stiffen instantly, and Louis feels it. His hand drops from your hair to your shoulder, fingers curling possessively, as the door eases open.

“Well, well,” comes that familiar drawl, silk over steel. “The tender scene.”

Lestat steps into the candlelight as though it were a stage, his smile sharp. He takes in the picture; you wrapped in sheets, trembling, Louis’s arms around you, and spreads his hands mockingly.

“Louis, my darling, you always did have a taste for the fragile ones. Though this one…” His gaze rakes over you, lingering, deliberate. “…is no longer fragile.”

Louis moves. Not the slow, cautious Louis you know, but something immediate, decisive. He rises to his full height, placing himself between you and Lestat, a wall of black coat and broad shoulders. You’ve never been so aware of his size, how he towers, how he can blot out the room if he chooses.

And now, he chooses.

“You will not look at her,” Louis says. His voice is low, dangerous, carrying more weight than you’ve ever heard from him. “You will not speak to her.”

Lestat laughs. “Mon Dieu, what’s this? The caged bird has found claws?” He circles a few steps inside, head tilted, amused. “You forget yourself, Louis. I made her. She is mine as much as she is yours.”

“No.” Louis’s reply cuts like a blade. He steps forward, forcing Lestat back a pace, and you watch as for once, it is Lestat yielding ground.

Louis looms, taller, broader, radiating a fury so tightly leashed it vibrates in the air. “She is not yours. Not her body, not her blood, not her soul. You will not touch her again.”

You’ve never seen him like this. Louis, who so often folded inward, who carried his grief like a chain, now stands taller than you’ve ever seen him, shoulders squared, gaze unflinching. Commanding.

Unyielding.

Even in your fear, even in the ache searing through you, a pulse of heat winds through your chest at the sight of him.

Lestat notices too. His smile twists, sly. “My, my. I almost admire you, mon cher. Where was this passion when it was me begging for it?”

Louis doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. He takes another deliberate step forward, until they’re nearly chest to chest, and you swear for a moment Lestat looks…smaller.

“This is the last time you enter this room,” Louis growls. “The last time you set foot near her. If you value what remains of your wretched existence, you will leave us.”

The air is electric, a taut wire between them. You clutch the sheets tighter around you, watching, unable to look away. Louis’s back is rigid, every line of him drawn with purpose.

Lestat, ever the showman, only laughs again. But there’s an edge to it this time, a twitch at his mouth, a flash in his eyes that betrays the sting. He steps back, bowing mockingly, never breaking Louis’s gaze.

“As you wish,” he purrs. “But remember, petit frère…I always return.”

He sweeps out with a flourish, the door slamming behind him.