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They are kissing, finally, finally, and it feels like home, like not even a day has passed since their last encounter, her lips soft against his, her movements familiar and confident as she pulls him close, as her hands run over his body, the body she knows better than anyone else ever did, unchanged in all their years apart, thanks to the Dark Gift.
He gasps as he cups him through his pants, grinding against her, reaching for her in turn, his hands sneaking under her shirt, feeling the warm skin under his fingers.
And suddenly a loud noise, and then she's not there anymore, a striking coldness taking hold of him at the absence, her presence now overshadowed by another familiar one, his voice reaching him from somewhere far away.
"Get the fuck out. Whoever the hell you are, you need to get the fuck out."
The slam of a door, and then Louis is in front of him, pulling him up, touching him, running his hands all over his body, gentle, and delicate, barely grazing his skin. Scared, almost.
"Christ. Jesus fucking- Lestat, what the hell did they do to you?"
"Why- why would you send her away?" he asks, thinks he asks at least, considering that Louis doesn't even acknowledge his question, grabbing him around his biceps instead, tilting his head as he frantically inspects his body, the inconsequential damage done to it.
"Lestat, oh my God. Are these bite marks?" he asks, an edge of what he thinks to be rage in his tone, gently touching the skin around the ragged wound on his arm.
"Why- you-" he tries to start, swallowing hard around the words as the room tilts around him, his voice a mere whisper when he continues. "I only just got her back."
"Christ, how much blood did you lose? You're freezing cold," he continues, his hands holding his face now, fingers pressing gently against the skin to assess the damage. He hisses when Louis' touch reaches just above his eyebrow, the bone clearly broken underneath, causing him to apologise, to draw his hand back.
"Why are you here, Mr Du Lac?" he asks, trying and failing to suppress a giggle at the pained look on his face. What was he expecting, after everything he put him through? A 'mon cher'?
"Why am I- Lestat", he says, looking hurt, and how dare he, he thinks, how dare he look hurt.
Put his whole life on display for the whole world to see, his worst mistakes and biggest regrets, without even the courtesy of a warning. Told Daniel about how much he despised him, how ugly and annoying and draining he found him, how he never loved him at all, how horrible he was. And now, now that he's struggling, now that he's at rock bottom, he has the audacity to take away the one person who could have done something for him, who he could have gotten an ounce of comfort from.
How dare he look hurt? Lestat should be the one looking hurt.
"I've seen you today, at the concert. With all the others," he finds himself saying, looking to the side, just in time to catch a glimpse of yellow, just behind the curtain.
"How high are you?" he asks, and Lestat laughs, because the edges of the room still look weird, the outline of each object still stretching and shrinking, something in his mind still not quite right. "Look at me, Lestat. Focus."
"Focus. I'm a scalpel, not a camera."
He smiles, laughing again at his own joke, and Louis tilts his face towards him with his hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes.
Christ, he looks good.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he mutters under his breath, wide-eyed and concerned for reasons Lestat can't even begin to imagine. "Okay. Okay, it's okay."
He nods, getting up from the bed, his hands leaving him, and he feels cold now without his touch, a shiver running through his body as he brings his arms around himself in a futile attempt at comfort.
And then something warm is on his face, and Louis is back in his line of vision, and he smiles, reaching with a hand towards his face, grazing his cheek, just to make sure.
A wet washcloth, and gentle hands, tenderly healing him and cleaning him up, and his eyes start to wander, as well as his mind, and he finds himself looking around the room, catching more and more glimpses of all his muses, his failures, laughing at him, mocking him, touching him.
And so he laughs back, and he can almost ignore the pain throughout his whole body, the sting of that harsh fabric over his wounds, the sizzling sounds of his skin repairing itself guided by Louis' blood.
"You can't do this. You can't get so high that you can't manage to defend yourself against a bunch of fledglings."
Louis' voice reaches him, distantly, and he turns back in his direction, giving him his best placating smile.
"I could defend myself alright."
Louis presses on one of his bruises, rather deliberately if he has to guess, and he opens his eyes to throw a glare his way. When had he closed them, he wonders. He doesn't remember closing them.
"Oh yeah? Cause Daniel told me you'd be dead if he didn't show up when he did."
"Daniel doesn't know what he's talking about," he smirks, getting the distinct impression that he's slurring his words.
He groans in pain when Louis lifts his left arm.
"Huh huh," he says, like he just proved something, and Lestat frowns at him, his lips trembling, a surge of anger rising suddenly within him.
Put all his wrongdoings on display, kick out the one person who could comfort him. And now, hurting him on purpose?
'Why is Louis trying to hurt me?', he remembers annotating on a page of the book. Seems like he's not quite done with that yet.
He's ready, ready to fight back, to get to him with a sharp tongue or perhaps a sharp fist, but suddenly a blinding pain explodes in his arm, making him cry out, and he looks down just in time to see Louis pull out a large piece of glass buried deep in his skin.
"Ow, that hurts," he whines, his lips jutting out in a pout, and he knows how childish he sounds, but he's powerless to stop himself. And Louis just looks at him, and he's surprised, and concerned, and maybe a bit disappointed, and Lestat has a sudden and completely overwhelming urge to start crying.
He looks to the side instead, stoically trying to suppress every flinch and hiss as Louis keeps removing shard after shard from his skin, biting his lip to stop himself from emitting any sound at all.
Stop crying Lestat, he hears in his mind, Augustin's voice cruel and unyielding. Stop always acting like a fucking child.
When will you start behaving like a man, I wonder, his father now, almost feeling his bruising grip on his wrist. The one good thing your mother did was never burdening me with daughters. And then you had to come along.
Stop whining Lestat, and grow up.
Grow up.
Grow up.
Grow up.
"My chest really hurts," he gets out in a breathy whisper, and Louis suddenly stops, his hands raising towards his sides, poking gently at his ribcage, just over the scars. Wincing at whatever he finds there.
"Yeah, I think you have a couple broken ribs," he says with a sympathetic smile, and Lestat has no idea how to tell him that his pain has nothing to do with that. "Why the hell were you about to have sex in this state?"
He starts laughing, again, because what else was he supposed to do?
Expectations?, she had asked, after not seeing him for decades, after he had told her he was not well. He had no expectations, he never did.
Clearly, she had.
He finds himself enveloped by Louis' arms, suddenly, with soft words whispered in his ear, gentle touches to his hair, his back, and all he can do is laugh, at the absurdity of the situation, at his greediness, at his stupidity.
He had been almost happy, after being attacked. The perfect opportunity for a reunion, he had thought. Pain and injury were the only things that could have brought Gabriella back to him, that could have made her care enough to make the effort.
And it had worked, he had her, and then…
And it's been so long since he has seen Louis, too, and normally he would be overjoyed by his touch, but right now he just wants her.
He tries to calm down, starts panicking when he realises that he can't. The fits of laughter go on for longer and longer, leaving him less and less space to breathe in between them.
"I can't- can't stop," he wheezes, and then he starts laughing again, sounding maniacal, insane, but Louis just holds him closer, keeps stroking his back, leaves a kiss on his temple.
"I know, I know. It's gonna pass. Just try to breathe, it's gonna be okay."
He keeps laughing, and laughing, and Louis keeps holding him through it, until he manages to take a breath, and then another and another in quick succession, starved for air he doesn't need, scared that the laughter is gonna start again.
But something different happens instead, his chest constricting as tears start to fall steadily from his eyes, his shoulders starting to shake uncontrollably with small sobs.
He presses his lips together, trying to stop it from happening.
I have to be quiet, he thinks, I have to be quiet, or I'll get punished, until Louis' soft touches and voice manage to bring him back to the present.
"There you are, hey. I got you."
Louis is here, he realises. Louis is here, he's really here, and he's not going to be here for long if Lestat keeps acting like this. Like a scared, stupid, unbearable child.
It's not what Louis needs. It's not what Louis wants.
And so he starts pressing kisses against his neck, his groin against his groin, but Louis stops him before he can start, shaking his head and putting some space between them.
"No, no, not now, alright? Let me just hold you, okay?" He brings him closer again, moving back on the bed to rest against the headboard, bringing Lestat with him and maneuvering him so he's draped over his lap. "I'm just going to hold you. You're going to be okay. You just need to be held for a bit, it's gonna be okay."
He starts shaking from the effort of holding it in, his ribcage feeling like it's about to burst, his head like it's about to cave in, and Louis notices, of course he does, and he presses a kiss to his hair, and he whispers gently to him, "Don't do that, let it out. Just let it out."
And so he starts crying, really crying now, ugly and loud and untamed.
Because isn't this what he had wanted all along? Some comfort, a kind touch. Someone who would just sit with him, and talk to him. A shoulder to cry on, a listening ear.
And still, she had been there, with him, after decades, centuries apart, and Louis had ruined it.
"I want my mom," he finds himself saying, sobbing, wailing. "I just want my mom."
"Oh, honey. Baby," Louis coos at him, his voice broken, and sad, and Lestat clings to him harder, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Why did you send her away?"
He feels it, the moment when Louis freezes, when his hold on him becomes hesitant, unsure.
"What?" he asks, and Lestat keeps crying, and then he repeats himself, and he feels Louis' arms drop, feels himself getting pushed away from him.
He sees the look on his face, the confusion, the horror, the disgust.
He gets up, a newfound panic in his chest, and he sees Louis' mouth open, his hand reaching towards him. He's out of the door before he can hear whatever it is that he had to say.