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Lestat is playing the piano when Louis arrives home.
The tune is soft but passionate, floating out of the windows on the warm summer breeze. It’s a good thing, Louis thinks not for the first time, that they decided on a big isolated house this time, on the outskirts of the city rather than right in the middle of the action. There are downsides, of course, but nobody complains about music at four in the morning.
Louis lets himself in. He finds Lestat just where he expected, but not everything is as Louis left it.
“What’s all this?”
Flowers in vases decorate Lestat’s piano. Bouquets of roses, of lilies, of local flowers Louis hasn’t learned the names of. Not yet, anyway. It’s been ten years, but he has time. There’s literally always time.
“A gift for my darling,” Lestat doesn’t stop playing. He looks up at Louis, though. His smile wants to be mischievous and jaunty, Louis can tell, but it lands halfway between that and uncertainty, caught like a fly in amber.
“What for?”
Lestat doesn’t give gifts the way he used to. It’s a part of their new dynamic, the one they’ve spent the last decade forging. He doesn’t use them as ways to bribe, or to distract, but only when he really wants to show Louis love, without conditions or strings. “It’s our anniversary, mon amour.”
“No, it’s not.” It is Shrove Tuesday. Argentina is a Catholic country, they could have celebrated in town, but Buenos Aires doesn’t do it like New Orleans. To be fair, nobody could.
“An anniversary, then,” Lestat says. “Ten mardis gras since we left New Orleans. I wanted to celebrate.” He raises his hands from the keys. “I have something else for you, too.”
“Yeah?” Surprise is giving way to a warmer, deeper feeling. The flowers really are beautiful, and they’re not something Lestat would have bought because he wanted them himself. That was the other problem with his presents of the past.
Lestat slides over, and Louis sits beside him on the piano bench. Lestat is particularly handsome tonight. Louis has tried to get him to update his wardrobe. Sentimental as always, his husband still prefers the clothes they bought together decades ago, when they were first getting to know one another. Lestat is the only man in Argentina, possibly the only man in the world, who looks like he drives a Model T and just read about the sinking of the Titanic. Still, Louis loves it. Loves him. He slides a hand around his waist as Lestat takes an envelope from atop the piano.
Louis recognises the handwriting at once. He’d know it anywhere.
“She wrote you a letter?”
Louis doesn’t know whether to be hurt or shocked Claudia chose to reach out to Lestat and not to him.
“I would call it more of a threat, but I knew you would wish to see it.” Louis grabs the envelope from Lestat’s hands, nearly tearing it in his haste to get it open.
***
Lestat’s life was saved by a dance.
A dance so painfully romantic, it nearly made Louis cry. It was everything he ever dreamed of, since he was old enough to dream anything of the sort, and it was everything he never thought he would get. Lestat knew that. Louis could see it in his eyes.
He saw it all in Lestat’s eyes. A love beyond measure, beyond the understanding of any human at their party, of any human anywhere. A love so deep it was unfathomable. It could not be measured, it could not be contained. It spilled out sometimes in the wrong ways, but only because it was so powerful it would not be constrained or controlled.
In Lestat’s eyes, Louis saw their past. The fumblings of friendship at the beginning, the sacrifices Lestat made to be near him–night after night of human food, of human drink, of human companionship including that of Louis’ admittedly trying family—without Louis knowing he was sacrificing anything at all.
He saw the first time they made love, when Lestat’s passion encouraged Louis’ and vice-versa, higher and higher until they were incandescent with it, burning like a fire it was impossible to put out. Louis never thought he would have that. He thought, at best, his life would consist of bland, dutiful lovemaking with a wife, supplemented by the occasional secret dalliance with someone like Jonah. He never expected ecstasy.
He saw the bad times, too. Lestat’s jealousy, Lestat’s rage. The depths of his own sadness that hurt them both. All part of a shared life, and not something from which they should shy away. If anything, it was further proof of their commitment that they weathered these storms together. That they always came back to one another.
Louis saw Claudia, the drama of her making and the part she came to play in both of their lives. He knew Lestat loved her as much as he did, that he would give his life for hers. He would do anything for either of them. His beloved husband, her devoted father, and Louis loved him.
He should say it. He wanted to. It scandalised the crowd when they kissed. Louis could hear the gasps and the indignation, as significant to him as the twittering of birds or the grunting of pigs. They were nothing, Lestat was everything, and Louis felt like it was just the two of them in the universe.
Lestat, the life of every party, would have left it then with Louis, spirited him away to spend the rest of the night making love. Louis could tell from the flush in his cheeks, the strength in his hand where he drew Louis to him. “I have to talk to Claudia,” Louis said. “Then I’m all yours.”
“All mine?” He sounded so hopeful, it nearly broke Louis' heart.
They had done everything it was possible for two men to do together, many times over. Lestat’s voice still made Louis weak at the knees. “Forever,” he affirmed.
Claudia, predictably, was furious.
“I knew you would fucking do this! I knew it!” She grabbed at her hair in frustration. “We should have gotten it over with a week ago. A month ago. I knew you would get here and see him dressed up and fall for him all over again. He’s got a sick hold on you.” Claudia took her hands from her hair to grab Louis’ wrists instead. “Listen to me. If you don’t get free tonight, Louis, you never will. It’ll be you and him, him and you, back and forth until the death of the fucking sun, do you hear me?”
“I’m not a kid, Claudia.” Louis pulled away. “And I’m not goddamn stupid. I want him.” I’m his destiny. He didn’t say it aloud, because Claudia wasn’t in a mood to hear it, but it was one of the first things Lestat ever said to him. It felt as true now as it did then.
“And when he kills you? What then?”
“He won’t.” Louis knew that as surely as he knew anything.
Claudia straightened up, pulling her Mardi Gras mask over her eyes. “Fine. You're a coward. Big fucking surprise. I’ll do it myself.”
He was always the more lenient of her parents. He was rarely annoyed with her, never angry. Louis could see shock on her face when he snapped, “No, you won't.”
She laughed. It sounded bitter. “You gonna fight me, Daddy Lou? Your own daughter? His dick that good?”
“I’d never hurt you, honey. Let's just talk about it.”
He reached out. She pushed him away, so violently he was caught off-guard and stumbled backwards. “If I leave here alone, you will never see me again.” She was crying now. “Never, do you hear me? And if you send your dog after me again, I will kill him, I fucking swear it.”
“I love you,” Louis said. “We both do. We always will, Claudia.”
“Fuck you.” She went, running wildly the way she did as a little girl.
But she wasn't a little girl. Louis’ instinct was to follow her, but his daughter was a grown woman. He had to let her go. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, forced back his tears, and returned to the party.
Lestat was standing alone.
“I want to get out of here,” Louis told him.
“The plan–”
“Fuck the plan.” Fuck all of the plans, the ones Lestat knew about and the ones he didn’t. “I want to go. Now.”
“And Claudia?” If Louis wasn’t stupid, then Lestat wasn’t, either. He had to have known something was up. He admitted as much later, even if he wasn’t sure of the full extent of their intentions.
“She’s an adult.” Louis willed himself to believe it. “She knows where we're headed. We’ll see her when we see her.”
“My darling–”
“I want to go,” Louis repeated. This time, they did.
***
The letter is brief. Claudia hopes Lestat is treating Louis well, tells him he doesn’t want to know what will happen to him if he’s not. Then she says she’s found a companion in France and the two of them “might think about coming to see Daddy Lou sometime. I guess you, too, if he hasn't come to his senses and kicked you out yet.”
Louis is overjoyed. He tamps down his excitement. “Why wouldn’t she write to me?”
Lestat looks at him. “Our little belladonna and I were always uniquely placed to understand one another.”
Louis knows that. He never thought either of them would admit it. “She’s happy.” Sounds like it, anyway. Louis wonders what this companion is like, what kind of person he is. She is. Whether it's Freudian that Claudia chose a French person, whether it's something she picked up from Louis, whether it's just a coincidence. Most of all, he hopes Claudia has found someone worthy of her. He wants to judge for himself. “Did you reply?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to! Tell her we’d be thrilled to have them visit as soon as they can.” The moment can’t come quickly enough.
“You know our daughter, chéri. She must do things in her own time.” Lestat’s hand lands on Louis’ thigh. “I say this is an anniversary I wish to celebrate. That is because I am so very proud of your actions that night.”
Louis scoffs. “Proud I didn't kill you?” They’ve discussed it many times, cried about it just as often. Knowing what he had almost driven his husband and daughter to do triggered a change in Lestat. A good one. They talk to one another now. More importantly, they listen.
So Louis listens when Lestat says, “Proud you gave her a freedom your own mother would never have allowed you if I hadn’t stolen you. That respect is what will bring Claudia back to us, in time.” To us, Louis notes.
“You miss her?”
“Of course.”
“Even though she would have killed you if I hadn’t stopped her?”
Lestat shrugs. “I cannot fault her for being what I made her.”
Louis looks at him. Lestat didn't have to share this letter. In the past, he probably wouldn't have. It has been just the two of them for the last ten years. Louis hasn't succumbed to the dark place, not like he did before. The old Lestat would have seen no reason to rock the boat, no reason to bring Claudia back into their lives. He would have been happy to keep Louis all to himself.
Or is that just what the old Louis would have believed?
“We could write a reply now,” Lestat suggests.
There's something else Louis wants to do at the moment. “First thing this evening,” he says, and leans in for a kiss.
The flowers aren't the only surprise Lestat has for him. Their bedroom is covered in candles, lined up on the dressing table and the top of the wardrobe and across the floor. As they enter, Lestat lights them all with a wave of his hand, bathing the room in soft light.
“Romantic.” It's nice, but Louis' not in the mood for touching and hand-holding and little kisses until dawn. He grabs Lestat by his suspenders, yanking him close. Pressing his mouth against Lestat’s, Louis winds their tongues together. There's a pressure on the back of his thighs and Louis jumps up obediently, his legs around Lestat's waist as Lestat lifts him easily.
“You have been eating, I see?” Lestat doesn't take his lips from Louis’.
“Mmhm.” After the war, a number of middle-aged German men with astonishingly false names appeared in Buenos Aires, guilt-free treats Louis has been snacking on over the past few years. He enjoyed a really delectable one tonight. Louis saw all the horrors the man had enacted in his blood and took his time savouring his meal. A Mardi Gras celebration of his own.
“¿Quieres estar encima?” ”
Hearing Lestat speak in French always lit a fire deep within Louis, sometimes at the most inopportune times. Hearing him speak Spanish is alluring in a different way. Louis knows how many nights they spent learning it together, rewarding each other with kisses and more when the answers they gave matched the ones in the back of their books.
“Yeah, I’ll be on top, baby,” Louis replies, nudging Lestat's nose with his own. “Just the way you like it.”
Their bed is bigger than the one they had in New Orleans, and much fancier. Crafted by a local artisan out of Brazilian rainforest wood or something like that–this conversation took place in the early days, when Louis’ Spanish was halting and Lestat didn’t understand why he couldn’t just speak French and Italian and rely on people to get the gist–it’s wide enough for Lestat to lie crosswise. That’s what he does, his face red and a bead of sweat rolling enticingly down his throat, while Louis rides him like it’s his chosen profession. It is, in a way. Lestat professes to love variety, and Louis certainly likes a change of position now and then, but this is the one they always come back to.
Lestat feels amazing inside him, filling up Louis’ heart as much as his body. The candles flicker, casting golden shadows as Louis grips Lestat's wrists hard enough he to leave bruises, if they were human. Louis wishes he could leave marks that would last more than an hour or two. It’s a possessive, protective urge, a deep desire to show everyone Lestat is his. Even though they don’t see a lot of other people. Even though he and Lestat have had many conversations since coming here about the dangers of pointless jealousy.
Louis has done the next best thing, anyway. He shifts his hands, interlocking his fingers with Lestat’s so he can feel the cool metal of Lestat’s wedding band against his skin.
They exchanged the rings one evening about three years after they arrived in Argentina. There was nothing particularly special about the night, or even about the rings themselves. They’re plain bands, made from Argentinian gold and bought at a little shop in town. It’s by far the least elaborate piece of jewellery Lestat owns, and the only one he wears every single night.
“Mi amado esposo,” Louis said, when Lestat slid the ring onto his finger. He says it again now. On both occasions, the reaction is the same. Red tears come to Lestat’s eyes. He pulls Louis down to kiss him and kiss him, until Louis is panting and Lestat is coming, long and hard, so deep inside it feels like he will be a part of Louis forever.
Good, Louis thinks, as Lestat immediately changes their position. Moments later, Louis is climaxing as well, filling Lestat’s mouth with spend which he eagerly swallows down, making Louis as much a part of Lestat as Lestat is a part of him.
“You cannot speak Spanish to me and expect me to retain my composure,” Lestat says, after they've had a moment to catch their breath.
Louis laughs and kisses him again, a loud smack on the lips. “I don’t. Anyway, you started it.”
One of the candles in Louis’ eyeline gutters and goes out. Before he can ask Lestat to relight it, Lestat pulls him close. Louis rests his head, listening to the lightning-fast heartbeat that matches his own.
“Thank you,” Lestat says, his voice a rumble in Louis’ ear. Louis doesn’t ask for what. It’s a conversation they’ve had so many times.
There were moments when they first walked away from New Orleans that Louis wondered if he’d made the right decision. The plan to kill Lestat was Claudia’s idea, but Louis had gone along with it. He’d never been happy about it, but for weeks, he’d thought it was the only sensible course of action. Afterwards, he wondered whether he’d made the right decision, whether Claudia was right and he was a coward who’d given in out of weakness.
Then Louis told Lestat everything. Sitting in this house a few nights after they moved in, he’d looked at Lestat across a room still devoid of furniture and told him what had nearly happened. When he finished, there was a long silence.
Of all the ways Louis could have imagined Lestat would react, this wasn’t one. Finally, as Louis was wondering if Lestat was hatching a murder plot of his own, Lestat said, “I am so sorry I made you do that.”
“That’s not–”
“And I hope if I ever lead you to this point again, you will go through with it and give me what I deserve. But for now, I will endeavour to make myself worthy of a second chance.”
That is all anyone can do, isn't it? He’s not perfect, nowhere close, but Lestat is working to make himself worthy of Louis. Louis hopes he’s doing the same for Lestat. And he hopes they’ll both do it for Claudia, when she chooses to trust them again.
Now, lying in their bed that is possibly made from rainforest wood, Louis rests his hand beside his head, feeling Lestat’s chest rise with every breath as that heartbeat thumps steadily in his ear. “I love you,” he says. It’s not the first time, or the fiftieth, but it makes Lestat’s heart quicken each time, like he’s never heard it before.
“Te amo mi amor,” Lestat replies softly, his fingers running through Louis’ hair. “And happy anniversary.”
It is. Louis presses himself as close as he can to Lestat. It’s been forty years, and still it never feels close enough. He does what he can, moulding himself to Lestat who wraps a sturdy arm around him, and drifts off to sleep.