Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They don’t call each other. That’s just not a thing between them, not with the unwritten terms of their current arrangement, not at this particular time.

Not with the ocean of resentment and betrayal stretching between them, not with every grievance way too close to the surface for comfort, not with an ongoing lawsuit over the fucking book.

They have sex, or scream at each other until their throats are raw. Or Louis lets Lestat scream at him while he tries to fight off an endeared smile at the familiarity of it all, and then they have sex again. He goes to the concerts every once in a while, on nights when he doesn't manage to justify to himself why exactly he should deprive himself of the vision that is Lestat on a stage, shirtless and covered in sweat, microphone in hand and moving like he was born for this.

And Louis worries, of course he does, even as he tells himself that he shouldn’t, that it’s none of his business. He has never witnessed it firsthand, but the feeling that something is not quite right gets harder and harder to ignore with every article he reads about the rockstar Lestat’s increasingly erratic behaviour, with every photo taken by paparazzi at drunken parties, every video of him stumbling out of his car, dazed and clearly far from sober.

But they don’t call each other. Or text. Or communicate at all in any way in between their lawyer-mediated meetings and quick fumbles in hotel rooms.

Which is why it comes as a pleasant shock when he takes a glance at the phone vibrating on his desk and reads Lestat’s name on the screen.

He smiles, the thought of Lestat existing in the modern world still foreign to him, despite having been in each other’s orbit for the past four years. Lestat with a cellphone, Lestat with a laptop, Lestat in an Adidas sweatshirt, Lestat with fans.

And he’s not even lying to himself at this point, not anymore. He doesn't try to fight off the smile, doesn't try to convince himself that he's unaffected, doesn't put on a show of indifference. There's no audience, and no one cares. Besides, he doubts anyone would believe him anyway. But no, he knows what Lestat means to him, what the nature of his feelings towards him are. He knows he’ll never be able to be normal about him.

But they still need this, this time apart. The feelings are there, and they’ll inevitably drift closer in time, and be happy again, and hurt each other again. And again and again.

And he has made peace with it, with the knowledge that they are inevitable, the same knowledge that had made him so angry in the past, at the beginning of their rekindled friendship, back when Lestat just assumed. He doesn't know when he stopped, probably exhausted by Louis' resistance, but it makes him a bit sad. They aren't quite on the same page yet, not quite managing to catch the other at the right time, but they will be, he's sure of that. And so he has made peace with it, stopped feeling guilty about every laugh and every smile, allowing himself to feel the fondness and the love he’ll always have in his heart towards that ridiculous man.

“Hello Lestat,” he starts when he picks up the phone, expecting the immediate “hello Louis” in response, their little new greeting, their little inside joke. He frowns when that doesn’t happen, the sounds of what seems to be someone breathing heavily the only thing to come out from the other end of the line.

“Lestat?” he tries again, pressing the phone closer to his ear, and he winces when a loud thud echoes through the speaker, followed by the already muffled sound growing even more distant. He can hear something else now, pained groans between shallow breaths, and a soft keening sound. The voice unequivocally Lestat’s.

“Hey, Lestat, talk to me? What’s going on?” he asks, his chest tight with worry by this point. He almost unconsciously grabs his things, ready to sprint into action, and he’s almost out of the door by the time he finally gets an answer.

“Lou...” he hears, his voice strained and almost unrecognizable.

“Where are you?” he asks urgently, only to be met with the unmistakable sound of retching, followed by some pained coughs and a bout of small, pitiful sobs that almost make his own eyes well up with tears.

“Lestat, hey, hey, hey, just tell me where you are, come on.”

“Louis. Help.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath in the hope of quieting down his irrational annoyance.

“I will, hey, I’m here, but I need you to talk to me Les-“ he freezes when the call disconnects.

He tries calling again, cursing when he's met with a recorded voice informing him that the number he’s trying to reach is currently unavailable.

He’s already on an Uber on the way to Lestat’s hotel by the time he thinks of trying to call Daniel in the hopes of him knowing what the hell happened, or at least where Lestat is.

No answer.

He promises the driver a generous tip in exchange for breaking a couple of traffic laws and getting him to his hotel as fast as he can.

He has no idea whether Lestat will actually be at his hotel or not, but he doesn't have much else to go on, a room number and a code name to give at the front desk being his only certainty in every city he follows Lestat to. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as the concierge gives him a second key and directs him to the fifth floor.

He freezes on the threshold, the overwhelming smell of blood and alcohol hitting him as soon as he opens the door. His eyes widen as he follows the crimson trail, bloody footsteps and drops leading him through the room and towards the bathroom. His blood runs cold at the scene awaiting him once he opens the door. It almost looks like a crime scene, straight out of a movie, with blood smeared on the walls in the shape of messy handprints and all over the tiled floor. The now-dead phone lies in a puddle on the floor with its screen cracked. And Lestat, half-conscious, his body slumped over the toilet with his cheek resting against the seat, breathing heavily, his arms shaking in an effort to hold himself up.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, rushing to his side and dropping to his knees next to him, cringing as his pants immediately get soaked through.

“Jesus Christ, Lestat, hey,” he combs some strands of blood-smeared hair out of his face with his fingers, tucking them behind his ears, before noticing with a grimace that the majority of his curls are hanging inside the toilet bowl, completely covered in what he can only assume to be vomit.

He gently lifts his head with a hand, prompting a soft moan from Lestat, freeing the hair trapped between the seat and his face, and he uses the other to scoop them out of the toilet and bring them behind his neck.

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, briefly closing his eyes before taking a deep breath. He scoots a bit closer, placing himself behind Lestat and coaxing him to lean back a bit, allowing him to support some of his weight. He expects Lestat to be cold against him, maybe because of the full body shivers running through him, so it comes as a shock when he feels him warm, far too warm, feverish, his skin soft and pliant to the touch. There's way too much blood running through his system, and he doubts any of it is clean.

He doesn't even want to imagine the nature of the cocktail of alcohol and drugs running through his veins, but the smell coming from the blood that his body thankfully already rejected is not exactly reassuring.

“I’m sorry, hey, but I need to make sure it’s all out,” he winces, putting two fingers inside his mouth and pushing down, deeply, feeling Lestat’s throat spasm in protest against the intrusion. He doesn’t expect anything to come out, not with how much blood is already in the toilet and around it, but he’s proven wrong when he feels the wetness around his fingers, quickly drawing them back as a gush of vomit comes out of his mouth, the rest of his body eerily still, completely drained. It’s not just blood, he realises, too thin and diluted, a strong smell of alcohol, like he’s been drinking copious amounts of it on top of the most definitely high and drunk victims he had consumed.

“There you go baby, there you go,” he encourages him softly before reaching inside his throat again, satisfied when nothing comes out after a couple of times, Lestat painfully dry heaving once his stomach is finally free of the offending blood. He can feel a crack in his chest when he starts crying again, quiet and broken, his face scrunching up in distress. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re okay.”

He grabs Lestat around his waist, scooting him back to make him lean against the wall before getting up in search of a clean towel, a task that proves itself more difficult than expected. He’s still trying to make sense of what happened in this room before his arrival, the bloody handprints on almost every surface making it look like Lestat was stumbling blindly in an effort to catch himself.

He ends up settling for the least bloody one, wetting it with warm water before crouching down in front of Lestat and doing his best to wipe at his mouth and chin, his neck, his tear-streaked cheeks. He gives his hair a quick squeeze, hoping to soak up the blunt of the blood in them, even if it doesn't make that much of a difference. He goes back to the sink, giving the towel a quick rinse before he moves on to his hands, wiping his palms and in between his fingers, up to his arms and finally his chest, running gently over the scars on his sides. He stops when Lestat tries to curl up on himself protectively, clearly trying to get away from the touch.

“Okay we’re done, it's okay, it’s okay,” he whispers before discarding the towel on the floor, passing an arm under Lestat’s legs and the other across his shoulders to lift him up. “Let’s get you off the floor, come on.”

“Non, pas plus,” he mumbles, causing Louis to frown. “Lache-moi.”

“Ssshh, relax, its all good,” he tries gently, his French a bit rusty but still good enough to get the general sentiment of Let me go, enough, which does nothing to stop his mind from spiraling about what the hell happened here tonight.

“Non.”

“It’s just me, Les, it’s Louis. You’re safe, just me,” he tries again to reassure him as he lays him down on the bed, making quick work of removing his shoes before settling down next to him, half sitting against the headboard.

“Non,” he repeats as Louis pulls him close, lifting him a bit to pull his head on his lap.

“Sleep. I’ll keep you safe.”

He manages to sleep fitfully for a couple of hours, curled up on his side and held securely against Louis as his body shivers and sweats, trying to work through the drugs coursing through his system, soft whimpers and moans making their way past his lips every few minutes.

Louis can’t do anything but hold him through it, running his hands up and down his back, scratching his scalp at his nape, caressing his face as he whispers softly to him in the hopes of soothing him with his voice.

And he takes the opportunity to observe him, to really look at him, something he hasn’t quite had the chance to do in a long time. Lestat has tricked him, he realizes. His body feels healthier, more filled out, stronger. It had made him happy when they started having sex again, feeling him like that, a far cry from the thin and starved version of him he had found back in New Orleans. But looking at him tells a different story.

Even in sleep, his expression looks tired, dark circles painting his sunken eyes. And the most worrying thing, the veins in his chest, too visible in an unnatural way, engorged and almost purple, painting an intricate design branching out from his heart. Almost like they’ve been singed by the substances repeatedly running through them. They would almost be beautiful if not for the horrifying implications of them.

He feels him starting to stir against him eventually, a slightly more aware and pained groan rumbling from his chest, and he draws back a bit to look him in the eyes, smiling softly at his slow blinks, struggling to focus on Louis’ face as his body fights its way back to consciousness.

“Hey.”

“Louis,” he whispers, far from sober yet if his big and dazed pupils are any indication.

“Welcome back,” he smiles at him, combing his blood-matted hair away from his face. Lestat looks at him for some long moments, an adorably confused expression on his face. He watches it fall almost in slow motion, realization or memory hitting him, and his lower lip starts to tremble, his eyes quickly filling with tears.

“Hey, don’t cry, it’s alright,” he frowns with a sigh when the first sob leaves his mouth, guiding him back to his chest with a firm hand on the back of his head. “Okay, okay, come back here.”

“I called you? Did I- did I call you? I don’t remember if-” he asks shakily, his fingers clenching in Louis’ shirt.

“Yeah.”

“Did we have sex?”

“What?” he asks, not quite managing to keep the horror out of his voice. He tries to push Lestat away to gauge his expression, giving up when Lestat just clings closer to him. “You were barely conscious, Jesus, Lestat, no, I would never-”

“Okay,” he sighs, some tension leaving his body as he takes some steadying breaths. His voice is small when he speaks again. “Are you mad at me?”

“For the call?”

A small nod against his chest.

“No. No, I’m not mad.”

There’s a brief pause, before he hears a shuddering sigh leave Lestat’s lips.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Bothering you,” he whispers, causing Louis to frown again. When has Lestat ever had a problem with bothering anyone?

“No. No bother. You can always call me when you need me, okay?” he tilts his head in the hope of catching Lestat’s gaze, waiting at least for a nod or any sound of aknowledgement when he doesn’t manage that, but silence is the only answer that greets him.

“Are you mad at me?” he tries tentatively after a few moments, rolling his eyes when he feels the nod against his chest, coupled with Lestat hugging him even closer.

“Why?”

“Because you hate me,” he whines tearfully, making something crack in his chest. Is that really what he believes, after everything? Is it just the drugs speaking, or did they take this too far, this game of tug and pull, of sex without feelings, of speaking through lawyers and other third parties, of never allowing themselves the comfort of a simple hug?

“I don’t hate you,” he tries to reassure him, knowing that he probably won’t succeed in the state Lestat is in.

“Yes you do.”

“You’re still high, Les, you need to sleep this off. We’ll talk more when you’re sober,” a brief squeeze, a kiss in his hair. “I don’t hate you.”

“I’m really tired,” he whispers, sounding exhausted and, Louis realises suddenly, so incredibly sad that it almost brings tears back to his eyes.

“I know. You can sleep, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry I sued you,” he manages to say around a sob.

“Lestat, come on, sshh,” he chides, rolling his eyes. His lawyer would have a field day with an admission like that. “Go to sleep.”

He hears Lestat’s breathing gradually slow down, still occasionally itching but significantly calmer, and he almost sighs in relief before he feels a breath catch in his chest halfway through, his shoulders convulsing as he dry heaves.

“Nope, hey, hey, there’s nothing left to throw up, breathe.”

“Does this smell come from me?”

He frowns, and quickly gathers some strands of vomit-matted hair in his hands in an effort to keep them as far away from his face as possible.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“And you still held me like this,” he replies shakily, his voice thick with tears.

“Don’t cry again, not at this, come on,” he sighs, stroking his back when he coughs around another small gag. “It didn’t feel right, washing you in that state. But I can draw you a bath now, if you’re up for it?”

He waits for Lestat to nod before helping him to his feet, grasping his bicep when he sees him sway on the spot, his eyes slipping closed and his arm shooting out in a subconscious effort to grab something to steady himself.

“Woah, you good?”

“Bit dizzy,” he gets out, swallowing hard, and Louis slips a steadying arm around his waist.

“You really should drink something,” he frowns worriedly, earning a small shake of his head from Lestat.

“It’s not gonna stay down.”

He guides him to the bathroom, cringing at the scene that greets them there. He had almost forgotten about it, and Lestat had as well by the way he inhales sharply, his eyes wide as they dart around the room.

"God..."

"It's okay, we'll clean up later. Just sit down while the water warms up, yeah?"

Louis watches him wearily as he plops down on the closed toilet lid, closing his eyes and leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head leaning against his hands.

He closes his eyes too, blocking out the gore surrounding them, blocking out the sight of Lestat, and letting the steady sound of the water slowly filling the tub ground him.

Chapter Text

“It’s all quite embarrassing, isn’t it?”

Louis snaps his gaze up, focusing back on the present, realising just how lost in thought he had become. He blinks hard as he stares at Lestat, who’s looking at him from his place in the bathtub, washcloth frozen mid-stroke on his forearm, a small smile on his face, and his eyebrows a bit raised as he waits for an answer.

Has he missed something? Has Lestat already tried speaking to him without receiving an answer? How long have they been sitting in silence, Louis staring at nothing, lulled to a daze by the soft splashing sounds of Lestat washing himself?

“What is?”

“Getting drunk to the point of throwing up at 265 years old. Like a teenager,” he scoffs, before looking up at Louis from under his lashes, his gaze sly and amused. “Do you think I’m having a midlife crisis, Louis?”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“You don’t have to minimize this,” he replies, watching as Lestat’s grin slowly drops, his expression turning somber. “If you need to, to make jokes, to make light of it... I get it. But you don’t have to, you know? Not with me.”

A bitter chuckle reaches his ears, and he realises that the words sound a bit empty considering the nature of their relationship during the past few months. But he won’t allow that to discourage him.

“What happened here, Les?” he tries gently, his eyebrows knit in a small frown. He watches as Lestat swallows hard, lowering his gaze towards the water, avoiding Louis’ eyes. He drops his washcloth in the water, bringing his knees up towards his chest and hugging them with his arms. They’re silent for some long moments, until he feels his heart stutter in his chest, matching Lestat’s quickening pace, wincing when he hears him draw in a big shuddering breath.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Lestat looks up at him, wearily, his mouth opening as if to speak before closing again. He licks his lips, his eyes dancing between Louis and the wall, growing more distant with each passing second. His voice is thready when he finally manages to speak, detached.

“I tried in so many ways. Wounds always heal and I’m too old for the sun, and dead blood just makes me sick, and-”

“Woah woah woah, Lestat, what?” he interrupts him, voice shaking, his eyes wide in alarm. Surely Lestat isn’t saying what he thinks he’s saying. Surely there must be another explanation.

Lestat just stares at him, his face blank, and Louis feels his heartbeat quicken with each moment of silence.

“I’m tired,” he finally whispers, his head tilting to the side. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Louis swears that he can see every single year of his long life painted in his expression.

He gets up slowly from the chair he’s been sitting on, dropping to his knees next to the bathtub. He draws Lestat close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, not caring about the uncomfortable position he's in, not caring about his clothes getting soaked through in the process.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying to keep it together, but he can’t help it, not when he feels Lestat’s arms around him, returning the hug, slow and unsure. He starts crying, sobbing uncontrollably on his shoulder, his hands shaking as he clings to his warm skin, his chest hurting as he processes his words.

“I’m sorry,” Lestat says after a while, sounding so drained, making him cry even harder.

“Stop apologizing, I’ve never heard you apologize this much in your life.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He laughs, the sound getting caught around a sob, sounding unhinged even to his own ears.

Didn’t you, Lestat? What did you think would happen after casually dropping something like that on me, huh?

He wants to shake him, he wants to yell at him. He wants to hit him until he can put some sense back into him. He wants to scream until he has no voice left.

But he keeps holding him instead, trying to get his crying under control, trying to breathe through the vice around his ribcage.

“Just let me... lemme just wash your hair, okay? It’s okay,” he manages to get out in the end, his voice shaky and hoarse, drawing back from Lestat after a final squeeze. He gathers his face in his hands, nodding at him, and Lestat’s small, confused frown risks sending him down another unending spiral.

He settles behind him, cupping some pinkish water in his hands and bringing it up to wet his hair, before squeezing some shampoo in his palm and rubbing it to make it lather.

He should change the water, he thinks distantly. He should open the plug and fill the tub again with clean water. He should use clean water to wash his hair. Everything seems inconsequential right now.

“Louis?” Lestat’s worried voice snaps him out of it, and he nods again, bringing his hands to his head, starting to gently scratch at his scalp, careful to avoid using his nails.

“Louis?”

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” he repeats dumbly, his vision blurring again in a haze of red.

He observes Lestat as they slowly make their way back to the bedroom, frowning when he sees him freeze on the threshold, his head sluggishly turning to the side, his gaze locking on the curtains blocking the large windows.

“You don’t need to stay here. I don’t have a coffin for you,” his tone feels distant, like he’s not entirely there. It makes fear grip Louis’ chest. “I shouldn’t have called, you can go.”

“Yeah, no.”

“Louis."

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m leaving you alone after what you just told me,” he states firmly, leaving no room for argument. He hears Lestat’s defeated sigh.

“Come on,” he whispers, guiding Lestat towards the bed with a gentle hand on the small of his back. He frowns worriedly when he freezes again a few feet away from the bed, eyeing it warily.

“Lestat?”

“I will go to coffin.”

He nods, staring at him in silence as he moves away from his touch. He drops the bathrobe to the floor, as always completely unconcerned with the concept of modesty, and retrieves some long sweatpants, a pair of thick socks, and a sweatshirt from his suitcase. The outfit is so unlike Lestat that it manages to further increase his worry, too casual, too modern, the colours clashing with each other, the size way too big for him. He lazily throws the clothes on before making his way towards the walk-in closet of his suit, shutting the door behind him without looking back.

Louis can hear the light creak of the hinge as Lestat opens his coffin, and the muffled sounds of crying that follow it shortly after.

He allows himself to walk away from the door once he hears Lestat’s breathing deepening as he falls back asleep, collapsing on the bed and trying not to break down again.

How did he not notice? How did no one notice?

He gets up with newfound energy, angrily scouring through Lestat’s belongings in search of his phone. How did no one check up on him throughout this entire evening? How does not one of his new little friends care enough to notice him disappearing for hours like that? What if he hadn’t come? Would he have just gone through all that alone? How many times has he already gone through it alone?

He scrolls through his chats, realising while he’s doing it that he most certainly really shouldn’t, but he can’t bring himself to care. He searches for some keywords, hoping to find someone questioning him. Hey Lestat, we should really talk about your drug problem. Are you okay Lestat? Listen man, we are here for you if you need help. He almost throws the phone off the bed when his search comes up empty.

He decides to open the first chat, Tough Cookie, the last messages still unread.

Dude where the hell are you? 00:58 a.m.

Seriously, did you leave already? 01:36 a.m.

Last chance if you still want a ride back, we are leaving. 02:46 a.m.

You can fly your ass back. 02:47 a.m.

Can you at least answer me asshole, you’re worrying all of us. Don't make me wake up to another headline. 03:12 a.m.

The texts give him a bit of insight into the events of the past evening at least. A party with the rest of the band, probably at a club. Lestat leaving at some point early into the night. Maybe because something happened, or maybe because he simply didn't want the others to see him like that after he overindulged.

He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, feeling the rage slowly leave his body. Right. His friends are human. And they do care about him. And they are probably used to his antics, and won’t drop whatever they are doing every single time Lestat decides to disappear on them on a whim. Besides, they are sleeping right now. And they probably don’t worry about him as much as they would worry about a fellow human, considering the fact that well, he’s immortal.

They probably don’t realise how fragile Lestat really is. How could they, when he spends so much of his energy hiding who he really is?

And still, they worry about him. That tells him more than enough about how serious this has gotten.

He turns the screen off, placing the phone on the bedside table before sitting back down on the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels an all-too-human headache starting to brew behind his eyelids.

He straightens himself when he hears footsteps approaching in the corridor, before taking a breath and telling himself that it’s perfectly normal for someone to be awake even if it’s almost five in the morning, that it's completely normal that someone would walk in the corridor of a fucking hotel. He bolts to his feet in alarm when he hears the steps stop outside the room, focusing all his senses on trying to discern the identity of their owner.

Not a human, he realises with a twinge of fear.

A vampire.

He knows they have been coming after Lestat.

But then... not just any vampire.

“Special delivery for the vampire Lestaaat,” he hears from outside the room, followed by the clumsy sounds of keys dropping to the floor before getting picked up again, and finally getting inserted into the lock. Leave it to Daniel Molloy to be fucking clumsy even as a vampire. “Clean blood, drink or you will regret it in the evening, trust- Louis."

His eyes widen in surprise when he finally manages to open the door and is greeted by the sight of Louis, his mouth stretching in a delighted grin. He opens his arms as if to hug him, making the blood-filled cooler bag he's holding drop to the floor, clearly not picking up on his current mood.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Woah, what did I even do?” he exclaims with a frown, and Louis knows from a single glance at his eyes that Lestat isn’t the only one who has been partaking in drug-laced blood lately.

“I really can’t deal with this right now. Leave the blood and get out.”

“Well fuck you, Louis.”

“How long have you been enabling this shit, huh? What is this? Have you relapsed? Been enabling each other?” he gets out shakily, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest, not managing to keep his anger out of his voice.

He knows he’s not being fair, that he can’t put this on him. That Daniel has been going through his own deal of shit, that he’s just a baby compared to them. But he needs to put it somewhere, and Daniel’s next words certainly do nothing to help his case.

“Louis. It's just a bit of fun,” he frowns with a smile, clearly confused by Louis’ anger.

“Fuck no. No. The scene I walked into today- no."

He sees Daniel's demeanor shift slightly. Something in his tone must finally alert him to the fact that something is wrong.

“Is he okay?”

“No,” he swallows, sneaking a glance towards the closed door of the closet, taking a deep breath. “And it’s almost morning, what the fuck are you doing still out? Get somewhere safe.”

He feels like a parent again, scolding an unruly seventy-year-old child.

“Louis.”

He sees Daniel take a step towards him, and realises his eyes are once again growing wet with tears.

“Just go. I just can’t- go.”

Chapter Text

He tries to clean up, as best as he can with what little supplies the hotel room has to offer. It’s something he has done countless times over the decades, quickly getting rid of evidence in plain sight, scrubbing stubborn bloodstains from improbable places after a messy kill, but it feels different today.

Heavier.

He picks up the broken phone from the floor, deciding it’s too late to salvage it once he tries charging it with no success, congealed blood completely coating the inside of the charging port. He decides to remove the SIM card and put it in Lestat’s second phone, just in case somebody should try to call him.

He uses the last of his energy before the sun is fully up to go through Lestat’s suitcase in search of some clean and comfortable clothes to spend the day in, briefly checks that the curtains are fully closed, and collapses back on the bed, promptly falling into a dreamless sleep.

It’s disorienting, the awakening, the unfamiliar setting, the events of the previous night rushing back to him. Lestat’s words. His vacant expression.

He shakes his head and gets up after a quick stretch, opening the curtains and cracking the window open to let some fresh air into the room. He closes his eyes, taking some deep breaths and letting the sounds of the city ground him. He realises he's thirsty, but that can wait.

He checks Lestat’s phone again, a small smile spreading on his face at the sight of the missed calls he sees on the screen. His manager, his bandmates. Cookie tried three times before giving up.

He decides to call her back. He likes Cookie.

“Fucking finally dude, I was about to come there and bust your door down man,” she picks up after just a couple of rings, her relief barely hidden behind her irritated tone.

“It’s me, Cookie.”

A moment of silence, before her voice reaches him again. There's a small tendril of panic in it.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s alright. I’ve got him.”

He can hear her shaky exhale, the click of her throat as she swallows. The soft sound of her hair moving as she nods.

“Okay, okay. He’s okay?”

“He will be,” he answers, trying to be comforting in front of her clear distress. He feels horrible about his previous assumptions about Lestat’s friends.

“Okay. Christ. I’ve tried calling, I was about to-“ a quick intake of breath as she composes herself, her voice steadier when she continues. “Okay. It’s fine. Yeah.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say, the silence stretching between them for some long seconds. Cookie is the first one to break it again.

“I don’t think he’s doing well, Louis.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Yeah. Just...” she pauses, almost as if debating whether or not she should allow her next words to leave her lips. “Don’t make it worse, yeah?”

She hangs up.

Opening another vampire’s coffin while they are sleeping is a big no-no in the vampire community. It’s frowned upon by the majority of them, and it goes as far as being seen as a violation by some. After all, that's why they have locks on the inside.

A coffin is a vampire’s safe place. Sleep is the moment when they are most vulnerable. There’s an immense level of trust required to allow another being inside one's coffin, and that's the reason why only companions dare to sleep together.

And they are not companions anymore, are they?

But tonight that doesn't matter, not after what he has seen, what he has heard. He can’t help himself, and he takes Lestat’s unlocked coffin as an invitation, as a sign of that trust, still present between them despite everything. He could have simply forgotten to lock it. In fact, that’s the most likely option considering the state he was in last night, but Louis would like to think that there’s something more to it than that.

He doesn’t go as far as lying down next to him, not wanting to scare him, especially if his suspicions hold any water, so he decides to just sit down on the floor, watching over him as he sleeps.

It’s late, the sun long set over the horizon, but Lestat is still in deep, his body eerily still and his expression slack, making him appear so incredibly young, almost human if not for his unnaturally slow heart rate and breathing.

Louis brings his thumb to his lips, wetting it with his tongue before bringing his hand to Lestat’s face, gently swiping the finger across his cheek to clean up the aftermath of his tears, the blood having dried in thin crusts on his skin during the day.

He wets his finger again, his heart clenching as he realises how naturally the gesture came to him, how domestic it feels. How intimate it is.

He moves on to his nose, to the line of blood running across it, the shape and direction of the tear tracks making it clear that he was lying on his side as he cried. He can’t help but picture him, curled up on himself, sobbing himself to sleep.

My baby, he thinks.

He keeps stroking his cheeks for far longer than necessary. He leaves a kiss on his forehead, because he can’t seem to find a good reason why he shouldn’t.

He pictures him running outside in the middle of the day, falling to the floor with a distraught scream once he realizes the sun is barely marring his skin.

My baby.

Lestat wakes up slowly, looking confused and almost afraid, his movements sluggish as he tries to lift himself into a sitting position, his gaze dancing from side to side as he takes in his surroundings.

“It’s okay, hey,” he whispers, hand still softly caressing Lestat’s face in an effort to ground him. His gaze finally lands on Louis, blinking hard, almost not believing his eyes. He can see his fangs peeking out from his half-opened mouth. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” he breathes out, his throat clicking as he swallows.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s get something in you.”

He stands up, extending a hand his way to help him out of the coffin. He smiles when Lestat takes it without hesitation.

He leads him out of the closet and back to the bedroom, sitting him down on a chair by the desk before going to the kitchenette to retrieve some blood bags for both of them.

Lestat drinks quickly, greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he’s done, and closing his eyes with a sigh of relief. Louis remembers all too well the feeling of waking up feeling completely empty.

“I had blood here?” he asks, looking back at Louis, who is still finishing his own breakfast. A small frown paints his face when Louis shakes his head.

“Daniel came by.”

Lestat rolls his eyes, but the fondness in his expression is clear.

“Which one of you is being a bad influence on the other?”

“Probably me more than him,” he answers with a sigh, causing Louis to wince in regret.

“I was a bit harsh with him earlier.”

Lestat throws him a disappointed frown.

“He’s just a young fledgling abandoned by his maker. Trying to make sense of it all. I know a thing or two about that,” a pointed look, a raise of his eyebrows. “I wanted to take him under my wing, you know. But I’m not in much of a state to take care of anything right now, I’m afraid.”

It’s shocking to hear Lestat talk this way about himself. To see him this self-aware. Louis finds himself at a loss for words for a moment. But the rest of what he's saying is not a surprise. He didn’t believe it at the time, it took him years to see it, but Lestat loves taking care of fledglings. Of his own, and of those abandoned by other vampires. He loves to give people what he never had.

He’s not always good at it, he doesn’t always know what he’s doing. But he loves trying.

He wasn’t equipped to take care of a daughter, no. Neither of them were. But teaching baby vampires how to hunt, how to navigate their new life. He loves it.

He realises he has been silent for a long time when he hears Lestat sigh, and he looks back at him just in time to see him bring a hand to his forehead, massaging it with his fingers as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Louis frowns in sympathy.

“How much do you remember?”

“Too much,” he swallows, shaking his head, raising his gaze to throw Louis an apologetic look.

Good, Louis thinks. Because there’s something he has to ask.

He just stares at him for a while, silent again, debating with himself. He stares for long enough that Lestat frowns back at him, tilting his head in a silent question. He might be completely off, or he might be completely right. In both scenarios, he doesn't see this ending in any way other than with an angry Lestat screaming at him.

But Louis looks at him, and he knows he has to ask. He looks at his oversized clothes covering every inch of his skin, and knows he has to ask.

“Why did you ask me if we had sex?” he manages in the end, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Lestat looks at him like he has just grown a second head.

“Because that’s what we usually do?”

“Right,” he grits his teeth, shaking his head and avoiding Lestat’s gaze. He’s not wrong, obviously, but it sounds horrible, said plainly like that. And he curses himself, for trying to actually have a conversation for once, for worrying and wondering, but Lestat surprises him again, his expression softening with a sigh, clearly noticing the distress emanating from Louis.

“What are you really asking?”

Louis licks his lips, taking a deep breath.

The panic at being moved while unconscious, the choice in clothes, the refusal to sleep in bed. God, he hopes to be wrong. He can take the hurt of Lestat assuming the only reason he answered his call was to get sex from him. He can. He gets it. But is it really all there is to it? Or had Lestat woken up remembering something, feeling something, and hoped that Louis would say yes, it was me?

“Did something happen last night?” he settles on in the end, spreading his arms in a gesture of surrender when Lestat just stares at him with an affronted scowl, his lips painted with a horrible smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Okay,” he sighs, shaking his head before letting his arms fall back to his sides.

He can see the moment his expression starts to crack, falling into something softer before scrunching up again, the distress clear in his eyes now.

“Talk to me.”

A hesitation, before Lestat makes up his mind with a defeated sigh.

“A guy tried something with me, at the club. We were making out, I was drunk, I don’t know. It’s a blur. I was into it, and then I felt...” he trails off, his eyebrows pinched, his eyes locked somewhere behind Louis as he tries to remember, before he shakes his head and swallows hard, briefly looking at the ceiling before going back to him. “And then I don’t know. I don’t know why, I just... snapped.”

“Honey,” he whispers, dread building in the pit of his stomach with every word.

“I’m careful not to kill in public. It’s not like I-” he starts to justify himself, his tone almost panicked, and Louis realises with a wince that Lestat mistook his concern for a reprimand, for disapproval of his behaviour.

“God, I don’t know how no one saw. I hope no one saw,” he breathes out, his voice shaking, chest heaving as he leans forward and buries his face in his hands.

“You’re fine, hey. It would be everywhere by now if they did,” Louis tries to reassure him, even though none of them have exactly checked the news since waking up. But they would know, he’s sure of that. Someone would have called them. “Maybe you cleaned up after yourself, even if you don’t remember.”

Lestat nods shakily, running his hands over his face a bit too aggressively for Louis’ liking before leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“I didn’t stop drinking. After. I wanted to drain every last drop from him.”

“That’s why you were so sick,” he sighs, his eyes closing as the realisation hits.

“Part of it, yeah,” he nods, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. He brings a hand up to rub his chest, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

“You’re okay, baby. Breathe,” he gets up, crouching down in front of Lestat and laying his hands on his thighs, stroking them reassuringly as Lestat nods again. “No one saw, it’s okay. You did nothing wrong.”

They stay like that for a while, Louis’ eyes locked on Lestat’s face with quiet concern as he watches him slowly steady himself, taking slow, measured breaths with his eyes closed, his muscles gradually relaxing as the panic leaves his body.

This is not a new Lestat, he realises suddenly. This has always been him. He has just gotten better at not letting anger be the only emotion allowed to reach the surface.

He remembers how adamant he was about choosing easy victims and leaving no traces or evidence. He remembers his rage whenever a fledgling Louis was careless in his kills, how he flew off the handle when they discovered Claudia was keeping souvenirs in the house. How he was shaking when people started realising what they were, trying to run them out of town or coming to their door to ask for help.

No matter how much Lestat gloated and preened, how much he declared to be proud about being a vampire, the panic about being found out has always been there, even if hidden way deep inside him, and being under the spotlight now is definitely feeding his paranoia even further.

Lestat gives him a small smile once his breathing is back under control, one of his hands gently landing on Louis’ cheek in a soft caress.

“Are we done with this charade then? The one where you don’t care about me?”

Louis frowns, feeling his heart break again at his words. God, he's gonna have to work hard to undo the damage of the last few months.

“Of course I care about you.”

The reaction is instant, and before he knows it he finds himself on his feet, cradled in Lestat's strong embrace, lips pressing against lips with frantic desperation, the body flush against his own pushing him in the direction of the bed between hungry kisses.

Chapter Text

He loses himself in the kiss before he gets the chance to put a stop to it, Lestat warm and strong in his arms, a complete juxtaposition with the one who was shaking hunched over on himself until mere seconds before. It should be a red flag, but his body reacts before his mind can, his hands coming up to cradle Lestat’s face as they stumble in a flurry of entwined limbs, until the back of his legs hit the side of the bed, Lestat lifting him up in his arms to throw him on the mattress before climbing on top of him.

He’s about to dive back into the kiss when Louis’ brain comes back online, thanks to the brief break from those intoxicating lips on his own, and he puts his hands to Lestat’s chest to stop him from getting any closer.

“Stop, hey,” he breathes out, reaching for Lestat’s cheek with his fingers when he sees the flash of hurt in his eyes. “Let’s just talk, okay? We need to talk.”

Lestat huffs in annoyance and plops down on the bed with little protest, lying next to him with his arms crossed over his chest. He stares stubbornly at the ceiling to avoid Louis' piercing gaze, who decides to sit up, needing a clear view of him for this.

He doesn’t even know where to start.

He takes a deep breath, knowing he's the one who interrupted, the one who wanted to do this. He knows he just has to get it out. That the longer he waits, the more annoyed Lestat will get. It would have been easier to ignore it, to pretend, to postpone. But he can't.

He looks at him, and he can't help but see him, his words coming to life in vivid detail in his mind. He pictures him in cemeteries, retrieving corpses from freshly-dug graves in order to drink their rancid blood. He pictures him out in the sun, enduring the pain in the hopes of injuring himself enough until he's forced back inside, unable to bear it any longer.

“Lestat, you’re suicidal. I can’t just ignore that.”

He expects the word to take the air out of the room. It feels unreal, saying it out loud like that, giving a name to this thing, making it real that Lestat of all people would ever reach that point. He expects him to deny it, to get defensive, to get mad at him for daring to be so explicit with it.

But Lestat just rolls his eyes with an amused scoff.

“Well, it’s not like it’s working.”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course he would do this. Of course he would laugh and make jokes and pretend it's not as serious as it is. Of course.

“I have a couple of methods left to try.”

“Lestat,” he says his name firmly, his fear coming out as anger in his tone, which seems to be the thing to finally break Lestat out of his feigned composure.

“What?” he snaps, his voice raising to match Louis’, his arms spreading across the mattress in frustration. “I’m tired. I’m tired of enduring. How much shit can a single person go through in their life before they just break? Because I think I reached that limit a long time ago. And it hurts, and I’m tired, Louis. I think I deserve to rest. Now that I know you’re okay, I just want to rest.”

His tone loses more and more of its bite the longer he talks, the last words coming out as a mere shaky whisper. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, clearly trying to stop himself from crying.

Rest. That’s something he can work on. That’s something he can latch onto. That’s an improvement, compared to dying.

Now that I know you're okay, I just want to rest.

He struggles to imagine how many sleepless days Lestat spent after Armand called him back in San Francisco. How worry and panic must have kept him up for ours, for days on end. How he must have forced himself to stay awake against the pull of the sun, waiting in vain for Armand to call him again, to give him any kind of news. How he must have exhausted himself for weeks, scouring through the voices in the hopes of hearing Louis' name whispered among them.

He’s going to be strong, he decides. He’s going to be strong and pretend that Lestat is not breaking his heart, because one of them needs to be strong right now. He's going to dig, and he's going to get him to talk.

“Why did you call?”

“What?” he asks, clearly confused and a bit hurt by the sudden switch-up. Louis swallows hard, willing himself not to fold under the urge to lie back down and gather him once again in his arms. He needs to be firm, and he needs to find the flaw in Lestat’s argument, in his motivations. He refuses to believe there isn’t one.

“If you really want to die, why call me for help in the first place?”

He watches as Lestat frowns, blinking quickly as he genuinely ponders the question.

“Self-preservation? Habit? I’m not used to giving up.”

There. There it is. A small smile spreads across his face.

“No, you’re not. That’s not who you are.”

He knows it was the wrong thing to say the second he sees Lestat's expression harden, his eyes burning with barely contained rage as he suddenly sits up.

“What if it is?” he sneers, baring his fangs at Louis before managing to retract them, running his tongue over his front teeth with his mouth closed. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and his voice is a bit calmer when he continues. “Everyone just assumes, all the time. That I’ll just be okay. That they can just say whatever they want, do whatever they want. That no matter what life throws at me, I’ll just make it unscathed to the other side.”

His chest is heaving by the time he's done talking, and he brings his arms up, around his middle, hugging himself.

“Well I don’t. I’m not okay. I’m done.”

His voice shakes on the last word, and he tightens his grip on himself, his hands trembling with the effort. Louis feels his heart clench in sympathy, and he almost scoots forward, almost reaches for his arms to unclench them from his torso and replace them with his own, before his gaze fixes on his hands, on his fingers, on his nails digging into his sides. Any second now, and he’ll manage to rip through the fabric of his sweater, reaching bare skin. Carving into it. He inhales sharply as realisation hits.

“So that was bullshit, yeah? That some other vampires you fought left you those scars?”

Lestat scoffs, immediately dropping his arms as if burned, almost like he hadn't even realised what he was doing. He probably hadn't, Louis muses.

Louis observes him as he suddenly gets up and starts to nervously scour through his belongings, rummaging through bags and pockets of haphazardly scattered clothes until he finally manages to find a packet of cigarettes. He walks towards the window, effortlessly throwing it open with the Mind Gift before even reaching it, and he leans his elbows on the windowsill, bringing a cigarette to his lips and lighting it with a casual flick of his hand.

Louis frowns at the useless showcase of power, wondering what he’s trying to prove with it.

They remain in silence for a while, Louis' position on the bed giving him a perfect view of his side profile, the lights of the city reflecting on his still-wet eyelashes, his lips closing around the cigarette as he inhales the smoke in deep pulls. He can see the light shake of his hand as he stubs it against the wooden frame, the night breeze blowing some strands of his long hair in front of his face. He doesn't seem to register it, his expression blank as he stares at the building on the opposite side of the road.

“Tell me about the other methods,” he asks finally, clearly startling Lestat out of his own thoughts. He briefly turns towards Louis with a confused frown.

“What?”

“The ones you haven’t tried yet. Tell me.”

He sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his mouth opening a couple of times before he throws a final quick glance at Louis, the hesitation clearly painted all over his expression. He wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want to talk about it, or because he’s afraid his words are going to hurt Louis. He nods to himself, eventually, seemingly coming to the correct conclusion that Louis is not going to let this go.

“Fire. Too many... memories attached to that one. Starvation, I don’t have the resolve for that. And the tour, you know, but that’s an ongoing project.”

“The tour?” Louis frowns, confused, and Lestat exhales with a small chuckle, a smirk painting his lips as he brings the cigarette back to them. It would be endearing if his eyes weren’t so sad.

“Move the target away from you, put it on me. Let someone else do the work.”

Louis sighs, closing his eyes in realisation. Christ.

“Two birds with one stone,” he whispers, and Lestat throws another glance at him, smiling, winking. Christ. Jesus Christ.

It can’t be all there is to it, though. He refuses to believe it. Lestat loves music, he loves singing. He loves performing in front of a crowd, basking in the adoration. That can’t be the whole reason. Not at the beginning, at least.

And also...

“I don’t think you actually want to die, or you would be dead by now,” he blurts out suddenly, a newfound confidence overcoming him the more he thinks about it.

Lestat lets out a startled laugh, briefly choking on a puff of smoke.

“God, thanks for the vote of confidence. Not even capable enough to fucking kill myself, huh?”

“That’s my whole point. I think you are perfectly capable of it. That’s why I don’t believe it’s what you really want.”

Lestat’s face falls, his mouth working as he nervously bites the inside of his cheek. Bingo.

Hurting himself, sure. But actively trying to kill himself? No. He might be telling himself that he is, but he's not. Hell, he might even believe it, but that doesn't make it any more true.

He forces himself to keep talking, knowing he has finally found the crack.

"You haven't even tried fire yet? Seriously? And wounds? You know that's not going to work. You’re in pain. You’re exhausted. Your mind has been through more than anyone should ever experience, and you’re trying to destroy your body to match that,” he states, matter-of-factly, watching as Lestat scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter grin. His hand betrays him, shaking as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. He softens his voice before continuing.

“But you love life too much. You love the world too much. The music, the color, the clothes, the new technology. What the future will offer. There are so many things to do, to experience. I know you don’t want to give that up.”

The lights of the street reflect on the tear tracks running down his cheeks, and Louis can't help but think that he looks even more beautiful like this. Human.

“But you do need a break. You do need to rest.”

“I can’t,” he chokes out, shaking his head again and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Why not, baby?”

“I have responsibilities. The band, the fans, I can’t just-” he trails off, gesturing wildly with his hand.

Louis frowns, confused. He doesn't understand what Lestat's plan is. What his line of thinking is.

“And what good is any of that if you end up killing yourself in the process?”

He watches as Lestat’s lower lip starts trembling, his gaze dropping to the floor as the first sob makes its way past his lips. The cigarette drops from his hand, his head shaking in a hesitant nod.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, finally getting up from the bed and walking towards Lestat's side as he nods again, with a bit more certainty this time, his hand raising to cover his mouth.

“Cookie was damn near crying earlier. They’re all worried about you.”

Lestat shakes his head, the statement only making him sob harder, and Louis hugs him from the side, pulling him into his chest even as he feels Lestat resisting, his gaze stubbornly remaining fixed towards the street.

Louis strokes his back, his hand travelling up towards his nape, before moving to his cheeks, tenderly swiping his thumb on the skin to dry his tears even as they keep falling. He winces when Lestat draws in a shuddering inhale, trying to compose himself before dissolving back into desperate sobs.

“I don’t know what’s been going on. Why you're crashing like this. And you don't need to tell me right now, but this is not sustainable,” he tucks a strand of hair away from Lestat’s face, bringing it behind his ear as Lestat fervently nods. He waits as he forces himself to take some deep breaths, swallowing a couple of times before finding his voice again.

“I really thought this was what I needed, to feel like myself again. Music has always been my outlet. The stage always loved me. And I’ve always been good at it. But now it’s like... like it’s flaying me open. I get up there and sometimes I can’t even breathe,” he closes his eyes, his voice turning thready. “I see things that aren’t there. I just want to run away. I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sobs, finally turning enough to properly hug him, his hands clenching in Louis' shirt.

“Honey. Hey.”

“I don’t want to think. Don’t want to see. Don’t want to... be. I just want to sleep for a bit.”

He freezes, letting out a shuddering sigh as the pieces unequivocally slot together, as he's forced to acknowledge what had started to float at the back of his mind after the third time Lestat had used the word tired. After all, he has done it before, when things got so bad that he didn’t know how else to cope.

He doesn’t pose it as a question.

“You’re talking about going to ground.”

Lestat doesn’t answer, silently trembling in his arms, and that’s enough answer in and of itself.

“Look at me honey, hey. Can you look at me?” he tries to keep his voice gentle, tries to keep the new tendrils of panic at bay, tries to smile when Lestat finally lifts his face from Louis’ chest and lands his wet eyes on him. “Okay, listen. I’m going to ask something of you. And I know it’s a big ask.”

“Anything for you,” he whispers without a second thought, and Louis closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion the words bring upon him.

“I want you to give me some time. As a gift, for me,” he starts, not knowing where the thought came from, not a plan, not really, frantic desperation pulling the words out of his mouth. “A year. Can you give me a year? A year we’ll spend together. Doing what we want.”

He watches as Lestat frowns in confusion, like he simply can’t conceive the notion of Louis wanting to spend time with him. He almost feels his heart break again at the realisation.

But he gets it, after the months they’ve had. He understands.

The Louis from a year ago would be terrified by how readily the offer came out of him, how easily he committed to something like that, but the Louis of today finds the alternative much more horrifying. He pictures Lestat asleep underground, among the dirt and the creatures, worms and critters crawling between his fingers, his hair. He doesn't know how much time Lestat would spend like that, but he immediately knows that if given the option, he’d rather spend every second of it clinging to him rather than knowing him there, alone, waiting for him to crawl his way back up to him.

And maybe his words sound manipulative right now, giving Lestat the promise of resuming their life together in these extreme circumstances, after he asked so many times, but he can't bring himself to care, no, not for this. Not if it’s going to save him. He swallows hard, debating his next words before deciding he has to give him at least this.

“If you still want to go to sleep after that... you can. I won’t stop you. I will be sad, but I won’t stop you. But just give me a year first.”

Lestat stares at him a moment longer before shaking his head and tightening his grip on his arms.

“I’m not your responsibility. You can’t just put your life on hold for me.”

That’s not what he said, but he knows Lestat can often only think in extremes. He humours him, wanting to see where he's going with this.

“Why not?”

“It’s not right. It’s not worth it.”

I’m not worth it, is what Louis hears, and he tilts his head a bit to meet Lestat’s gaze.

“Course you are. Don’t laugh,” he scolds him with no real heat in it when his statement is met with a slightly hysterical chuckle. “What’s one year in the grand scheme of things? My life will still be here after that,” he swallows, cradling Lestat’s cheek with his hand to ensure he won’t look away. “And right now I’m not confident yours will.”

Lestat just shakes his head again, lifting his eyes to the ceiling in an effort to stop his tears. Louis sighs, deciding to put him out of his misery.

“Listen. I won’t put it on hold. I’ll still live my life. And you’ll live yours. We’ll just be... part of it. Of each other’s life.”

He waits for Lestat, stroking his hair, running his thumb across his cheek as he watches him struggle to compose himself, a thousand emotions flicking across his face before his eyes fall closed, a tear slipping past his lids.

“I don’t know what I can give you. I’m not... I’m not doing well, Louis.”

He’s the one who has to stop himself from laughing now. Understatement of the century.

“Yeah.”

“I sleep a lot. And I cry like, every day.”

“Okay,” he nods, keeping his gaze firmly on Lestat. He knows what he's doing, and he knows he has to allow him to do it. He needs to get this out, to throw everything at him in an effort to drive him away. To test whether he will succeed.

“Some nights I don’t have the energy to do things. Or even talk.”

“Yep. That’s depression for you. It’s okay.”

Lestat sighs in frustration.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re signing up for.”

“I do, though. I’ve been where you are.”

“It will be too much,” he insists, his tone having lost most of its conviction by now, and Louis just shakes his head, bringing him back into his arms, crushing him against his chest with as much force as he can manage without hurting him.

“Nope.”

He feels Lestat start crying again, and he frowns as he realises the sheer number of times it happened. He has probably seen him cry more in the past two days than he has in the whole time they have known each other. If that's not a sign of someone who has truly reached their limit, he doesn't know what is.

“You can’t leave me. If you leave me, in this year. I won’t cope. It will break me. So if you’re here, you need to be here,” he gets out in between sobs, clutching desperately at Louis’ back with trembling fingers, and Louis just nods again, leaving small kisses on his temple as he whispers gentle reassurances to him.

“I’m here. Listen. I don’t want to be away from you. I don’t want to lie awake during the day and wonder what you are doing, whether you are safe-"

“If you’re doing this out of pity-“ he interrupts him angrily, weakly trying to pull away, only for Louis to press him further into his chest.

“That's not what I’m saying,” he swallows hard, trying to quell his frustration. “You scared me. You are scaring me. That doesn’t mean that’s the reason I want to stay with you.”

He draws back, just enough to cradle Lestat’s face in his palm and look him in the eyes as he continues.

“I care about you, with all of myself. I need you to be close to me. I want you in my life again. And I’ll prove it to you until it gets into that stubborn head of yours,” he smiles when that elicits a small wet chuckle from him. “You said it yourself. It’s a charade, yeah? There’s no use in pretending anymore.”

“People online say that we are toxic.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he replies, with a bit more force than necessary, startling another laugh out of Lestat. It’s so far from anything he had thought Lestat would ever say, and he has had enough of that already from Daniel. He’s tired of letting other people dictate what he should and shouldn’t do, of sticking their nose inside his relationships, his marriage. He's sick and tired of people thinking they can speak on matters only the two of them can really understand. “I don’t want to live without you, even if we are bad for each other. Do you?”

Lestat shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“No. So why should we? Because it would be the right thing? For who? Not for us,” he continues, watching as Lestat shakes his head again, apparently stunned into silence by Louis’ newfound certainty. “I don’t care if we destroy each other again. I don’t think we will, but my point is... we’re the only people allowed to do that to each other.”

He says the last part slowly, begging Lestat to hear him, and he nods when Lestat’s eyes widen slightly in understanding. Still, he has to make sure.

“Do you hear me? Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Lestat nods again, his eyes fixed on Louis.

“That includes me.”

“That includes you. You’re not allowed to kill yourself.”

“Only you can do that,” he breathes out, a smile slowly spreading across his lips.

"Yes. Only I can do that."