Chapter Text
New Orleans International Airport glowed softly against the December dark, its wide win
dows reflecting strings of Christmas lights and the restless movement of travelers rushing toward departures that felt urgent, inevitable.
Lestat de Lioncourt stood near the gate to Paris, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a guitar case resting at his feet like a promise he refused to set down. At twenty-one, he already carried himself like someone meant to be seen—tall, sharp-featured, golden-haired, eyes bright with a hunger that refused to stay quiet. There was music in him, always. Even standing still, he vibrated with it.
Standing in front of him Louis de Pointe du Lac.
Louis’s hands trembled as he tried to wipe the tears from his face, only smearing them further across his cheeks. His curls were neatly styled, his coat buttoned too tight, like he was bracing himself against the cold—or against what he already knew was coming. His eyes, dark and luminous, never left Lestat’s face.
“I got you something,” Louis said softly, voice unsteady.
Lestat turned, instantly attentive. “Mon amour?”
Louis reached into his bag and pulled out a small, wrapped package, pressing it into Lestat’s hands before he could overthink it.
“Open it.”
Inside was a leather-bound notebook, its pages thick and empty, waiting.
“For your songs,” Louis said. “So you don’t forget where they came from.”
Lestat smiled—wide, brilliant, devastating. “As if I could ever forget you.”
Louis laughed weakly, then reached for something else. A cassette tape.
“I made this too,” he said. “Every song reminded me of us. Of you.”
Lestat raised an eyebrow playfully. “All on one tape?”
Louis nodded. “Side B is all Bowie. I figured Paris would approve.”
Lestat leaned in and kissed him—slow at first, then deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of Louis’s mouth. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Louis’s.
“That,” Louis whispered, “was not the goodbye kiss.”
“Oh?” Lestat murmured.
“That was just… an interim kiss.”
Before Lestat could reply, the loudspeaker crackled overhead.
Final boarding call for Air France Flight 184 to Paris, Charles de Gaulle.
Louis stiffened.
“You have your ticket?” Louis asked, even though he knew the answer.
Lestat lifted it with a flourish. “Right here.”
They hugged again—longer this time—arms tight, foreheads pressed together, as if the airport floor might give up and swallow them whole out of spite.
“I’m not even gonna say it,” Lestat muttered against his shoulder. “If I don’t say it, maybe it’ll be like I never left.”
Louis closed his eyes. That did it. That line slid straight under his ribs and stayed there.
“Lestat…” He pulled back just enough to look at him. His mouth opened—full of things. Promises. Begging. Something selfish and ugly like stay. But none of it survived the moment.
What came out instead was smaller. Braver. Crueler to himself.
“You should go before the plane leaves.”
The words tasted wrong. Like he’d spoken them in someone else’s voice.
“Yeah,” he added quietly. “Okay.”
Lestat leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to Louis’s forehead. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just intimate. Familiar. The kind of kiss you give when you’re memorizing someone.
Then Lestat turned toward the gate.
Louis watched him take a step—then another—and suddenly the air felt wrong. Heavy. Pressed tight against his lungs.
“Wait,” Louis said.
Lestat turned immediately.
Louis crossed the space between them in a few hurried steps.
“I have a bad feeling,” Louis said, voice breaking.
Lestat frowned. “About the flight? Chéri, don’t tell me you think—”
“No,” Louis said quickly, shaking his head. “Not the plane. Us.”
The last passengers were boarding now. Time was closing in.
“I know we’ve talked about this a thousand times,” Louis said. “I know Paris is your dream. Your music. Your future. But my heart—” He pressed a hand to his chest. “My heart is screaming at me not to let you go.”
Lestat softened. “Louis…”
Louis clutched the front of Lestat’s jacket, his fingers curling into the leather as if he might anchor him there.
“I can’t seem to let go of you,” Louis whispered.
Lestat gave a breathless laugh. “You hear me complaining about that?”
But then his expression shifted. The teasing drained from his face, replaced by something heavier—something deliberate.
“Look at us,” Lestat said quietly. “We’re standing in an airport. No one thinks clearly in places like this. Airports are made for panic and regret.” He lifted Louis’s chin gently, forcing him to meet his eyes. “We already made this decision together. You were accepted into one of the best art programs in the country. You’re going to see the world through that lens of yours, turn light into truth.”
Louis shook his head, tears spilling freely. “None of that matters to me.”
“And I have Paris,” Lestat continued, voice firm but tender. “Studios. Stages. Music. A real chance at the life we planned.” He brushed his thumb beneath Louis’s eye. “We have a good plan, mon amour. A great one.”
Louis swallowed, steadying himself. When he spoke again, there was resolve beneath the heartbreak.
“You want to do something great, Lestat?” he asked softly. “Let’s throw the plan away.”
Lestat stilled.
“Let’s start our lives right now,” Louis said. “Tonight. I don’t know what that life looks like. “I don’t care about art school or galleries or any of it. I want you. I want us. We can run away. We can stay here. We can have a family don’t know where we’d live or how we’d make it work—but I know it has both of us in it.” His voice broke. “And I choose us.”
The words hit Lestat like a physical blow.
“The plan doesn’t make us great,” Louis went on, stepping closer. “What we have together—that’s what makes us great.”
Silence stretched between them.
Lestat looked toward the gate. Only one passenger remained in line.
Something in his expression—soft, steady, resolved—made Louis’s stomach drop.
For a long moment, Lestat said nothing.
Then he pulled Louis into a kiss.
It was deep. Consuming. Desperate in a way that felt final. Like he was pouring everything he had left into it.
Louis kissed him back, clinging, heart racing—hope flaring painfully in his chest—
until he felt it.
Not hesitation.
Not doubt.
Decision.
When Lestat pulled away, he cradled Louis’s face gently, thumbs brushing away tears.
“I love you,” Lestat whispered.
Louis searched his eyes, waiting—praying—for the words that would undo everything.
They didn’t come.
Instead, Lestat spoke softly, carefully, in French.
“And a year in Paris isn’t going to change that,” he said.
“Cent ans ne pourraient pas changer ça. A hundred years wouldn’t change it.”
The meaning hit Louis all at once.
Not I’m staying.
Not I choose you.
Just—I’m still going.
Louis’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
He nodded, because he didn’t trust himself to speak.
His hands slipped from Lestat’s jacket.
The hope drained out of him, leaving something hollow and raw in its place.
Lestat kissed his forehead—gentle, final.
Louis didn’t kiss him back this time.
“I love you,” Louis whispered.
“Je t’aimerai toujours.” Lestat replied in French, pressing his forehead to Louis’s.
Then Lestat turned and walked toward the gate, handing over his ticket without looking back.
Louis stood where he was, frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding too loudly in his ears. Watched the man he loved hand over his ticket. Watched the attendant nod. Watched the line disappear into the jetway.
Tears streamed freely down Louis’s face now, unchecked, unashamed.
The gate door slid shut with a soft, final click.
Louis didn’t move.
He stood there, staring at the sealed doorway, as if will alone might bend reality. As if love—raw and aching and desperate—might be enough to make it open again.
He waited.
And waited.
His chest hurt with the effort of breathing.
Passengers passed him. Luggage rolled by. Christmas music drifted faintly through the terminal.
Still, he waited.
For the door to open.
For Lestat to come back.
For the universe to correct itself.
But it didn’t.
The gate agent shut down the podium.
The monitors flickered, updating to the next departure.
Paris vanished from the screen as if it had never existed.
Louis finally blinked.
His phone rang.
The sound startled him—sharp, invasive—yanking him back into his body. He looked down at the screen through blurred vision.
GRACE.
His younger sister’s name felt like a lifeline and a wound all at once.
He answered, lifting the phone with trembling fingers.
“Hey,” Grace said, her voice warm, hopeful. “So? How’d it go?”
Louis opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Grace filled the silence gently. “Did he make it on time? I told you those holiday lines were gonna be a nightmare.”
Louis swallowed. His throat burned.
“He—” His voice cracked immediately. He stopped, pressed his lips together, tried again. “He left, Grace. Lestat… he left for Paris.”
There was a pause. Not confusion. Recognition.
“Oh, Lou,” Grace said softly—tender, like she wished she could reach through the phone and pull him into her arms.
Louis closed his eyes. The tears came harder now, unstoppable.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “You okay?”
“I asked him not to,” Louis whispered. “I begged him. I told him everything. And he still—” His breath hitched. “He still got on the plane.”
Grace exhaled slowly. “I’m so sorry.”
“He said it wouldn’t change anything,” Louis said, staring at the sealed door, even though he knew better now. “Said a year in Paris wouldn’t change us.”
“And what do you think?” Grace asked gently.
Louis let out a weak, broken laugh. “I think something already has.”
“I hate that he did that to you,” Grace said. “I swear, if I was there, I’d’ve—”
“Grace,” Louis cut in, rolling his eyes despite himself. “You couldn’t have stopped him anyway. You know how stubborn he is. That French ego does not play.”
She hummed in agreement. “Facts.”
Then, softer: “You want me to come get you? Take you somewhere? You don’t gotta be alone tonight.”
Louis looked around the terminal—couples holding hands, families laughing, kids half-asleep in their parents’ arms.
Christmas Eve.
He bit the inside of his cheek and let out a bitter little laugh. “Yeah… yeah, I could use some company right now.”
Grace chuckled, instantly switching gears. “You want me to bring cookies too? Or you gon’ be one of them sad boys just staring at the airport tiles like it’s the end of the world?”
A small laugh slipped out of him. “Cookies would help. Maybe hot chocolate too. Extra marshmallows.”
“Say less,” Grace said. “Don’t worry, big bro. You’re not alone. We gon’ fix your mood—real quick.”
Before Louis could respond, the phone shifted.
Just then, Paul—Louis’s younger brother, attitude dialed all the way up—snatched the phone from Grace like a man claiming his turf.
“Louis, I ain’t even gonna lie,” Paul said, voice dripping with judgment. “I never liked that man anyway. You could do way better. Too white for my taste. Always had that Parisian, ‘I’m-too-cool-for-y’all’ energy. Can’t believe you let him sweet-talk you like that.”
Louis rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Paul. You never like anyone. Stop acting like you got my life figured out.”
Paul chuckled, unapologetic. “I’m just saying… Mama ain’t never liked him either. Don’t think it had anything to do with you. She just don’t trust white folks, period. And yes, that includes your French boyfriend with the fancy accent and the ego bigger than Bourbon Street.”
Louis shook his head, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Well, Mama never likes anybody I bring home, so… what’s new?”
Grace cut in, exasperated but laughing through it. “Y’all need to chill out! Paul, stop it you need to learn to read the room and Louis, stop rolling your eyes on the phone! You gonna break something. We don’t got no white people money to replace a cracked Phone!”
Louis laughed—really laughed this time, even if it didn’t last long. “Alright, alright. You right. Just… hurry up, okay?”
“I’m already on my way,” Grace said. Then, quieter: “Lou, everything’s gonna be okay. I love you.”
Louis swallowed, emotion thick in his chest.
“I know,” he said softly, grateful beyond words. “And I love you too.”
He ended the call and pressed the phone to his chest.
Outside the terminal windows, the sky had darkened completely. Somewhere out there, the plane’s lights faded into nothing.
The truth hit him like a bass note in a quiet church—deep, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Lestat was gone.
Paris was calling him.
Louis placed his palm against the cold glass.
There was nothing he could do to stop it.
He exhaled slowly, bitter and sweet all at once,
and whispered to no one:
“This… this can’t be the end.”
Not like this.
Not them.
Somehow—some way—Louis told himself they would make it work.
Even if he didn’t believe it.