#⸻ 𓆩𓆪 interactions ⸢ lestat de lioncourt ⸥

[hostiae]

there's an air of trepidation about him tonight. he's almost to the building and there's that quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. go back. it's not loud enough, however, not half as loud as the curiosity. if he didn't go, he'd wonder about it for ages to come. if it turns dangerous for him, it's not as if he can't make a quick exit. would armand set him up like that? he doesn't think so. not now and for what purpose? that was just it, wasn't it? even if he would, even if it were dangerous for lestat to slip into a niche little cafe after dusk, he'd have gone anyway because he wanted to know.

the little bell rings obnoxiously and lestat's dressed inconspicuous. fame brought new eyes and while he relished in it, he didn't want it here and now. he doesn't want it tonight. is it a little arrogant to think he might receive it? perhaps. blue eyes search the cafe for some sign, hidden behind heavy sunglasses until they fall on him.

like a doppelganger, a ghost — a phantom at a table — what kind of trick is it? some deranged prank — but if it were, he wouldn't be able to feel him. it wouldn't be so dead on, like walking into a memory where nicki wore modern clothes. nicki. nicki. he can't turn back, slip away where he came to try to gather his racing thoughts. how was he supposed to react to someone long since dead? he's too shocked for relief to well up in his chest, too confused to feel anything but rising anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

he'd like to throttle the messenger who gave him no warning, but that would take hunting him down and is no more than a distraction from who he's staring at right now. he makes his way to the table, an attempt to hold himself together, sunglasses taken off as soon as he reaches him, expression clouded in confusion. he swallows against a dry throat, feeling a deep vibration within himself. is he scared? angry? hit with a grief long ago buried? he wants to say his name, but it's dying on his tongue. it's too much disbelief. when the words do come out, they're spoken fast and broken.

❝ how — what is this? you can't — they told me you were gone. ❞ dead, the word is dead, lestat.

@aranostra for a plotted starter

[hostiae]

lestat suspects that the whole truth of what happened won't be easy for him to say out loud, just as he knows that amalia won't see what he's done in black and white. he doesn't fear her judgment, but knows that she'd have every right to judge him when it comes to his telling of events. she won't agree with how he treated claudia or louis ( or how he'd tried to cultivate and cling to a family that had stopped working decades ago ). he held onto it at their detriment. while he doesn't want to hear criticism in his current state, he's not a fool to think he doesn't deserve it. and he knows that amalia's opinion would be worthwhile, that she wouldn't loathe him after. lips curve into a faint smile, humor reaching tired blue eyes.

❝ i'll say hello more frequently this time, ❞ he replies, but it had never been a silence born against her in any way. he'd still cared, he'd still thought of her, but his life in new orleans had swept him away.

he can't wait to arrive in new york, to feel properly clean, not only physically, but to find some clarity of mind that he couldn't here, in his weakened state.

❝ you have my word, i'll protect your furniture as long as you provide the bath. ❞ as she returns from making her rounds through the cellar, lestat leans into her arms, weight fully against her, eyes closing at the physical contact. oh, how he'd desired physical touch — comfort — following his near-death experience, following laying in a trunk in the garbage, left out to rot. lestat had always thrived with touch and when he didn't have it, he felt cold, lonely. for the first time in a while, he feels safe. even in a weakened state, even as tired and grieving as he was, he gathers strength from amalia.

❝ with you, i think i could love anywhere, ❞ he admits, and it wasn't far from the truth. the two of them had a way of creating entertainment where they were. spending time with her had been enough. it could be enough. but, the thought of enjoying new york city's theaters and opera houses felt like a dream. it was such a juxtaposition to how he felt right then, laying on the edge of an ending, rather than a beginning. ❝ now that i'm coming, we'll change just how many operas you haven't seen, ❞ he promises, though opens his eyes again to the offer. weak fingers wrap around her arm, bringing the wrist to his mouth before his fangs sink in, hungrily drinking as blood fills him. he'd needed this.

❝ now you understand. ❞ this entire situation is miserable, and amalia's not sure she's ever seen lestat looking so...pathetic, and yet there is nowhere else in the world she would rather be, right now. amalia holds people at a distance, protects her heart wherever she can. it takes a lot to earn her true loyalty, to become one she would do anything for, but lestat has been one of those people for over a century. of course she came. ❝ i love you, lestat. even when you're a bastard. even when you haven't said hello in decades. ❞

and so she is here, and she will look after him, and at some point when he tells her what really happened to lead to this — and he will tell her — she will either scold him or soothe him. possibly both.

❝ you're not allowed on my furniture until you've had a bath, dear, ❞ she says, tone teasing but the words true. ❝ it took me a couple of nights to drive down, you should be stronger by the time we get back. ❞ it is easy to focus on this, on the practicalities; amalia must, after all, be strong for him, and that is easiest done if she doesn't think about her emotions too hard. even now, she goes around the cellar, making sure they aren't going to be surprised by the sun when day breaks, before she sits beside lestat, pulling him gently into her arms.

like her, he's always taken comfort from being physically close to someone. unlike her, it's not a secret.

she presses a kiss to his (dirty, terrible) hair. ❝ you'll love the metropolitan opera house. i've not seen their operas, but they just formed a ballet company. the last thing i saw was a cole porter, though. enjoyable songs, terrible story. ❞ silently, she offers lestat her wrist again; she fed, when she was finding food for him, specifically for this purpose. ❝ i really think you're going to love it there. ❞

[hostiae]

@unheald asked: " spare me the rockstar bullshit - we've covered that. i wanna hear about the real you " -- for lestat from daniel

it's so simple — to be the vampire lestat. he slides into the role like a fitted costume, tailored perfectly for him and him alone. the rockstar grew from a reality of himself, just a larger than life version, built for cameras and consumption. and people loved to consume him, didn't they? just as he did them. but the way daniel looks at him, he can tell he sees it for what it is.

should he spill how louis spilled? such eloquence in his sadness, like a tragic poet.

lestat shifts, shoulders resting against the back of the chair, attempting to look unfazed despite feeling like the spotlight was heating up. he crosses one leg over the other, a breath taken.

❝ the real me? ❞ he smiles, but it lingers on self-deprecating. ❝ should i begin as louis did? ❞ his familiarity with the book came from an obsessive intake of the words on the page. there are few books he suffers to the end, but louis's? of course he had. ❝ it was 1794, but unlike him, i was neither eldest or favored. ❞

it's a deflection. an attempt to make the book small so that he can take comfort in his bullshit just a little longer. you've had louis, he wants to say, but are you ready for me? oh, he has to stop posturing, but finds it difficult.

❝ i had grown up on the other side of the révolution, my father, the marquis of a small village. our title, our château, all that was left of our name — ❞ he pauses, a more scrutinizing, curious gaze focused on daniel. ❝ are these the kinds of details you prefer? or do you have more specific questions you'd like to ask? ❞

[hostiae]

( @stormlit asked: hello. this is the part where i kill you. (faith & lestat startin' off strong)

oh. how awkward. her threat comes with an admirable amount of confidence, but lestat feels minimal concern about it. he'd had his share of threats over the last two centuries or so. his share of attempts. as it turned out, he was given the annoying ability to endure, for better or worse. in curiosity, he tries to reach out with the mind gift, hoping to learn a little more about her.

❝ a professional? ❞ he asks. a grin spreads across his face, fangs extracted for show. if she wants to play vampire hunter, he'll give her the vampire she's looking for. he starts towards her, slow, calculating footsteps closing the distance. he tilts his head, blue eyes sympathetic, suddenly frowning with faked empathy.

❝ you sound so sure. how disappointing for you. ❞

[hostiae]

🧛

[hostiae]

it's all louis. the decor, the endless shelves of books — lestat's eyes stop on the portrait above the fireplace — paul, sentry to their conversation. he turns from the fireplace, choosing to occupy the sofa ( closer to louis than the second armchair, but still separate enough ).

there's something comforting in knowing that this is louis's space, though it seems perpetually countered by the nervous energy racing through him. lestat leans back into the cradling embrace of the sofa, leg crossing for his heel to rest on his thigh. there's a part of him that wants to blame the buzz of energy on the show, but it's so far gone from his mind and had been from the second he saw the card. this energy — it was all them.

he fixes the hem of his pant leg over his boot, an easy distraction to the use of the word we. he'd like to say he's at peace, but he isn't. perhaps speaking of her had done louis some good. lestat only wishes he could think of her without guilt squeezing his ribcage, without a heaviness that had always felt unlike him. when he thinks of them leaving, it was once from the perspective of a dying vampire left out with the trash, but then there were the other thoughts, the thoughts he supposes he has no right to.

did claudia enjoy the ship? had her eyes been full of wonder when they reached europe? had she soaked up knowledge from the countries they visited like a sponge? did she have a favorite? he hopes it wasn't france.

❝ i agree, ❞ he says, not realizing the seconds that had passed between his last words, eyes lifting to meet louis's. ❝ i appreciate the symmetry, ❞ he says, a smile touching his expression.

❝ how's the city to you now, after all this time? does it still feel like home? ❞

he's choosing easy. casual. and while it feels like there might be a thousand words that he'd want to say to him, he's putting forth an effort to be normal about this.

Louis finds himself wanting to move forward in time; skip the difficult part, get to... What? What is his purpose? For as long as he's thought about this, he's still not sure. There's just more he hasn't worked through, and he can't work through it until he talks to Lestat again.

Perhaps it's he's used to Lestat setting the pace for the two of them. And when it wasn't Lestat...

"Yes, for now, I plan to stay," he says as he guides Lestat inside, through the entryway into the salon. The real estate agent had been halfway through calling it a family room before correcting herself. She knew he would be living alone. Instead of a family, the salon has rows of bookshelves along the walls and a couch flanked by two armchairs. There is a fireplace which is useless in the Louisiana climate, but Paul's portrait hangs above it.

The dress had been displayed too, on a part of the wall that's now empty, but he moved it before taking the card to Lestat. It hangs in his office now.

He gestures vaguely toward seating arrangements, if Lestat would like to choose one. Louis himself takes an armchair. He will keep his distance.

"I didn't keep many things from that time, but it's small, isn't it? I had forgotten it was among my things when we left." The same half-lie he'd told Claudia when she'd found it. He'd had to be quick to keep her from ripping it up.

Strange to casually mention her, even hidden in we. To refer to their leaving. To think of that moment in Europe when she found the card. But avoiding the past defeated the point. He didn't want to dwell, but he didn't want to try to escape it either.

"Anyway. I thought it was appropriate as an invitation."

[hostiae]

( @malumxsubest asks: " nothing can prepare you when you lose a child. and to realize you may never feel whole again, to live with it until the end of your days. " @ lestat cos why not have TWO broken hearted parents mourning over their children?? 🙃 )

as she speaks, lestat sees only yellow — yellow fabric amongst ash. how does a creature filled with life, a girl whose laughter filled their townhouse for years, who he'd loved even as their feelings turned bitter and poisonous, just disappear? she was still his child and he was still her creator. if he could have saved her, he would have. if he could take her place in the ash, he would have.

lestat had experienced great pain throughout his life, he'd suffered loss, but nothing had ever made him feel so hollow. nothing had ever made less sense than losing her. the daughter he damned, that had been his most formidable fledgling — he would take centuries of her hatred to turn back the clock that kept moving forward. he never knew it could hurt that way, never knew that he could feel like the light inside himself was so dim.

❝ how do you move forward so fractured? knowing the end of days isn't coming? ❞

[hostiae]

his smile is infuriating. he could have bared his fangs at him and it would have been less vexing. he would have felt far less tension ( it would've been easy ). oh, but armand made nothing easy, did he? coming here feels more and more like an error of his judgment. yes, he knew him, no, this isn't surprising ( but he'd hoped for a different outcome ).

❝ or, perhaps i thought you may be past your delusional sense of justice. i came to you because i have no other choice. ❞ he means the latter comment to have a bite to it. it isn't an edge he'd wanted to bring to him. it was far more complex than having limited choice ( although, it was true that he was limited in who he could seek help from ). originally, he put off any return to paris because of armand and the paris coven. what he wanted from his existence would never align with armand's, he told himself.

he'd never hated armand. never truly loathed him and he thought all he'd left him with, all he'd given him, he might do this favor for him. oh, but he'd been wrong.

❝ whatever your plans are, they'll fall apart, you know. i may not understand them, but i can promise you that. ❞

On that they would disagree, heavily and aggressively, but that was part of why Lestat had said it. Armand was convinced of that. They did so enjoy winding each other up so it seemed. Rather than offer any response to that, Armand was silent, just smiling sweetly at Lestat. His silence could be far more vexing to others than anything else.

"As for justice, you know well enough what my justice would be Lestat and yet you came to me. Part of you obviously wants that justice." Armand laid it out simply and clearly. It had been a bitter pill to swallow at first, that Lestat had returned but not for him. He had held out some dim hope buried deep within the recesses of his heart but that had been squashed utterly. In a way, he was grateful that it had been shattered and he was no longer under any illusions as to where they stood. It made it easier to do his job.

When Lestat asked him what he was going to get out of this, Armand shrugged a shoulder carelessly as though the matter was of little consequence. "You will see in time." It was all that he was going to give Lestat.

[hostiae]

lestat takes the offered cigarette, balanced unlit between his fingers until armand sits down. he chooses to lean forward and close enough to press the unlit tip to armand's, lighting his own before he rests back against the neglected sofa.

trouble had come for him as long as he could remember. a child who could never reach his family's expectations, an actor catching the gaze of a deranged vampire —paris, new orleans, and paris again, trouble could be a noose or a comfortable cocoon.

❝ i'm a beacon for it, ❞ he replies, and to armand's smile, he flashes a grin before inhaling a drag from the cigarette. it's almost comfortable here. no animosity from the vampire turned rockstar, not tonight, not just then. ❝ or perhaps i yearn for it, i'm not sure. ❞ he tilts his head, blue eyes settling on the other with curiosity.

❝ it's so much easier when you stop fighting it, isn't it? what has repression ever given you? ❞

trouble's always gonna find you, baby. ( lestat ) // @hostiae //

a surprisingly warm kind of smile on his lips and armand's body visibly relaxes. hand that had been tucked into trouser pocket is removed and instead, comes up to fish into jacket pocket for cigarette pack-- one offered, his own lit with a flourish of fingertips.

there's a long, deep sigh that comes from the vampire as he moves, coming to rest himself upon the edge of sofa back-- ratty thing, no doubt belonging to the venue as opposed to the star opposite him. armand smiles as he looks to the blonde.

"i suppose you understand that notion all too well, don't you?" a head tilt, and there is no malicious intent with his words. if anything, there is something... softer about armand's gaze for now. "but you've leaned into finding trouble rather well... i suppose i am... trying to do the same now. trying something new in hopes it might work out a little better."

[hostiae]

it's like a dream. there is a small part of him that wonders if he's not asleep — that he's been lulled to rest by the tempo of the storm, that the desperate, nostalgic heart of him has reached out for louis's hand. for the first time, he feels exhilarated, no longer trudging through the world in slow motion, legs heavy, mind fogged. he's been a vampire who survives, living among the ghosts of what he'd lost ( of what he'd torn apart in his hands ). he'd felt as rotten as the walls of their old home. they'd fall to pieces together. and now, all of a sudden, he's moving through new orleans, pulled along through pelting rain, through wind that may have knocked mortal men off their feet. new orleans and her storms, her raging hurricanes, had always felt like a mirror for himself. her chaos is home.

home is also the man leading him through the storm.

his chin lifts and eyes direct towards the glow of their destination, trampling through water until they arrive — safe. he can only imagine what he looks like, robe soaked through, hair flattened, clinging to his cheeks, his neck. he'd known himself when louis came to him, washed out and gaunt. but who saw him to care? other than his ratcatching fledgling. his sense of pride and care for his appearance had felt meaningless for a long time. since paris.

he doesn't recognize the rhythm of his own breathing until they're in the elevator together, leaning against the wall with louis ( his head on his shoulder, and lestat's own tilting against his ). once before they'd left and now, again, the reality reaches him. he's here. louis is here. the elevator dings and he follows louis out of the lift, to the hall, and towards the room. in front of the open door, he hesitates for the first time that they'd left. crossing the threshold into his room is symbolic, isn't it? a breath is taken, he walks in behind him, the door closing behind.

for a moment, lestat only stares at louis — then, he laughs. all the adrenaline from the storm, from the trip, the way they stand there awkward figures in a hotel room, soaked to the bone, shivering. the release could come in sobs, he supposes, but for him, it comes in laughter. it's not particularly amusing, and lestat knows that it must be remarkably unhinged.

❝ louis, how i've missed you. ❞

LOUIS  AND  LESTAT  DANCE  WITH  A  STORM  THAT IS  AS  RECKLESS  AS  IT  IS  DESPERATE.  The  streets  of  New  Orleans  are  a  war  zone  ----  howling  winds  hurling  debris  like  missiles,  palm  fronds  bending  to  breaking  points,  and  rain  slashing  horizontally  in  stinging  sheets.  They’ve  been  jogging  for  blocks,  from the previous hovel, likely in ruin from the high winds. Louis swears he can still hear the shutters flapping against the old house’s decrepit siding, even as they grow further and further. Louis  has  his  collar  upturned,  shoulders  hunched  against  the  wind  and  soaked  jacket  clinging  to  his  skin.  He's  tugging  at  @hostiae ’s robes,  but  even  in  Lestat’s  haggard  state,  he  seems  impervious  to  the  chaos,  more  exhilarated  by  the  storm  than  frightened.     “   There—!   ”     Louis  pants,  leading  them  through  the  tempest  down  a  narrow  side  street.  The  soft  glow  of  the  hotel  is  in  view,  the  lights  inside  flickering  but  holding  steady  against  the  storm,  but  it  feels  like  miles  ---- the  wind  threatening  to  tear  them  apart  with  every  step.  Water  pools  ankle-deep  in  the  streets,  splashing  up  their  legs  as  they  push  against  the  elements.

Ushering  Lestat  through  the  front  door,  Louis  slips  inside  just  as  a  gust  of  wind  nearly  wrenches  it  off  its  hinges.  They  stumble  into  the  lobby,  drenched,  dripping  ----  looking  like  two  ghosts  dragged  in  from  the  grave.  The  concierge’s  eyes  widen  at  their  appearance  but  quickly,  he  recovers,  gesturing  them  toward  a  side  door  that  leads  to  the  elevators.  Louis  is  trembling,  whether  from  the  cold  rain  or  the  adrenaline,  it  is  difficult  to  tell.     “   This  way,   ”     he  says,  hand  slipping  into  Lestat's  as  they  enter  the  elevator,  the  hum  of  the  machinery  oddly  comforting  after  the  deafening  roar  of  the  storm  outside.  In  the  quiet  of  the  elevator,  Louis  sags  against  the  wall,  presses  his  forehead  to  Lestat's  wet  shoulder  in  a  desperate  attempt  for  something  like  comfort.  The ascent is short-lived and the  elevator  dings  unceremoniously. Shuffling  out  into  the  dim  hallway,  Louis  leads  the  way  to  his  room,  fumbling  with  the  key  card ---- his  hands  still  unsteady  and  slick  with  raindrops.  Inside,  the  room  is  warm,  and  the  scent  of  old  wood  and  freshly-laundered  fabric  fills  the  air.

[hostiae]

someone had to be there to help her. after all that had happened, after his role ( regardless of the outside influence and his own role as captive ) in paris, it made sense for it to be him. lestat didn't look backwards on his past with rose-tinted glasses nor in denial of what or who he'd been, who he still was. a work in progress, he supposes. one thing that a murder attempt and subsequent time locked in a trunk, followed by a paris retreat had given him was time to think.

he'd always loved claudia, but he'd wronged her as a father ( just as he'd wronged louis as a partner ), lestat could close his eyes, see the past, and in his worst moments, he wondered if he wasn't possessed by his father. just cursed with the temper.

❝ yeah, well, i have nothing but time, ❞ he replies, though the truth is that he couldn't leave her for long. they're immortals. she's safe. and yet, he checks on her like anything could rip her away, as if she could grow worse in his absence. while lestat had been averse to being left, to the feeling of rejection, he pushes it down, stamps it out, and reminds himself that this had nothing to do with him ( a hard feat ). this is about saving her, not about whether she stays.

❝ i expect you do. i, too, have grown a distaste for it. though, i think you'll find the countryside to be quite... different from paris. ❞ blue eyes watch as she struggles to sit up, as she takes the mug. when she drinks, he breathes a sigh of relief and returns to the bedside chair.

he reaches out, to steady the cup in her hand. gabrielle had somehow been an easy secret to keep. it had been over a century since he'd seen her, but he was certain she still lived. ❝ somewhere, ❞ he answers, though he knows that the nonchalant way it slips doesn't give enough weight to the reality of the confirmation. ❝ admittedly, it's been well over 100 years since we last spoke. but, she too, has the dark gift. ❞

life is rarely fair. claudia's no child, for all that she looks like one, and she knows that, and yet it feels like she's had more than her fair share of unfairness. more than enough troubles and traumas. and the one time things change, the one time life actually gives something back to her instead of taking and taking, this is what happens? oh, she's glad to still be alive — and not just because it'll make it easier to get her revenge, once she's recovered — but life sucks, now. and she still had to listen to lestat talk like that, she still had to watch madeleine die and louis be dragged away.

it's not fair. but then again, she never expected that it would be.

❝ you been there the whole time? that's creepy, even for you. ❞ he cares, of course; claudia's not stupid enough to try and claim otherwise. she just doesn't know why lestat always chooses to care in the worst way, at the worst time. why save her life, when he cared nothing for helping her live it? i'm not abandoning you, he says, and it makes claudia want to rip his tongue out. it makes her want to hold onto him. ❝ you know i'm gonna leave soon as i can hunt, right? i wanna get the fuck outta france, and we ain't gonna become a happy family. ❞

nor is she going to thank him.

slowly, painfully, claudia attempts to prop herself up, though her body feels as though it's barely holding itself together. how long will it take 'til she's fully reconstituted? how long must she suffer lestat playing at the dad he never was? but she takes the mug, shaky though her grip is, and brings it to her lips, though it's clearly an effort. it looks about to slip from her grasp.

❝ you got a mom? still? ❞

[hostiae]

it's difficult to know how to help without taking action. lestat knows that the important part is to be next to her. it's why he doesn't press for every detail, to know the whole story although he wishes that he did know it. he doesn't want to open the wounds and force her to bare her pain to him more than she already had. she'd tell him on her own time, wouldn't she? he's there to hold her up, to steady her again, to be a semblance of safety after what she'd experienced. in a way, he expresses love through talk of action, through expressing desire for vengeance.

but he knows it's unproductive. it does very little.

❝ we're lonely creatures, aren't we? ❞ it's said with a bitterness towards their groupings — oh, lestat could understand the desire for others, but the restriction, the separation of identity to move as a whole, it was far removed from his independent nature. tell him what to do and he'll move oppositely. it isn't the first time someone he'd loved been captured, held, and harmed, by the cruelty of a coven. and while nicolas had been human when the coven under the cemetery had first found him, it was more than torment towards a human, but cruelty aimed at him.

he knows that amalia doesn't need him to be a hero. the anger that feeds his words, the vengeance that blossoms into ugliness, is surely nothing compared to her own anger, despite their differences in display. ❝ i wish you hadn't learned that way. in my experience, covens are barbaric, antiquated, and superstitious. ❞

fingers intertwine with hers as she drinks, eyes closing to the soft pull of blood from his veins. as she finishes, they open, blue eyes coming to rest on her again, a smile touching his lips as she kisses his cheek and rests beside him. lestat reaches over, tucking stray hair behind her ears. ❝ don't thank me, ❞ he replies, ❝ you never have to thank me for this. ❞

there are many words that can be used to describe amalia, not all of them complimentary, but meek has never been one of them. even as a human, she had a spine, stood up to her bastard of a maker for as long as possible, though she had nothing to fight vampire strength. that is not to say she never feels fear — she's only...well, not human, but something with feelings all the same — but she will not let it defeat her. it simmers, she plans, and then she turns it into anger she can use.

being this afraid, however? the kind of fear that makes her want to curl up in this bed and never leave? she may be safe now, but amalia's not sure she's been this scared since the night she was turned.

❝ i know. you think i don't? ❞ lestat wears his anger on the surface, a roiling storm of emotion, and lets it boil over. amalia doesn't fault him for that, for wanting to murder them all right now, but she prefers a foolproof plan. because she was the fool, and look at where it got her; bloodied, tortured, and only the iron wall in her mind saving her from the brainwashing they tried. ❝ darling, i'm furious. i just...i'm scared, too. i didn't know we could do that to our own. i didn't know we grouped like that. ❞

fool her once. she won't make the same mistake again. now, she knows better. fuck covens.

she is afraid, yes, but not alone; lestat has no idea the comfort he is providing, just by being here, not pressing too much, or what a gift his blood is. this may not be the first time he has offered it, but perhaps it is the most important. amalia drinks deeply, her fingers lacing with his and her thumb rubbing over his knuckles, and has to force herself to pull away, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.

❝ thank you. ❞ she comes to rest beside him, able to feel her body healing itself, knitting itself back together. ❝ thank you. lestat, i don't know how to... ❞

[hostiae]

perhaps he'd played the tease — if only a little. he knows what people already say of nicolas, just as he knows how they'd viewed him all night, soaking up the attention, laughing and playing along. he'd willfully ignored his brothers, aware of their incessant need to protect their name ( it had little to do with him and everything to do with how his actions reflected on them ).

lestat's grin only grows, his eyes practically alight in the dim, moonlit cemetery. nicolas's laughter has such a beautiful ring to it. is everything about him so effortlessly musical? ❝ mhm, i've been waiting. i had to be sure you'd put in the effort, ❞ he teases, meeting the second kiss immediately.

pulled closer, he presses his hips against his a groan muffled into the kiss as he deepens it needily. while one hand remains in his hair, the other drops, finding space between them to run his fingers up his waist, to his chest, bunching clothes where he touches in longing to be beneath them.

(x)

The kiss feels like the release of tension in a summer storm. After building and building all evening, Lestat's hands are on his face and grasping his hair. They're already pressed as tightly together as they can be and it still doesn't feel like enough. Nicolas wouldn't breathe if he didn't have to, and he's delighted to find Lestat feels the same.

"You've been waiting?" Nicolas replied with a laugh. "I've been flirting with you all night." And he'd been pretty blatant about it to, judging by the furious expressions on the faces of Lestat's brothers. Nicolas didn't care about that. All of Auvergne already knew Nicolas de Lenfent was a fallen man and he reveled in it.

Talking about it felt like a waste of air. Nicolas leaned his face in for a second kiss, catching Lestat's lips against his own. His hands found Lestat's hips and pulled him closer, even if there was no room to actually do so.

[hostiae]

arm folded at his waist, his opposite hand tucked under his chin as he listens to her play, occasionally stopping her to try again or to go backwards if he thought they'd moved into too advanced territory. while there are plenty of instruments she could learn, piano is what lestat knows the most intimately. piano was intuitive, it laid the foundation ( once you mastered the piano, you could master other instruments with far more ease ).

❝ you'll appreciate it when you're older, ❞ he assures as she slumps in her seat.

while her puppy eyes were convincing, he doesn't cave and instead exhales a sigh and sits down on the bench next to her. ❝ the piano's your foundation. it's clean, uncomplicated. you'll learn a full range of harmony, of chord progression, and all instruments that follow will make far more sense than they do alone. ❞ it's been hours, he knows, and she must be tired. so, he decides to at least, entertain the idea with a sigh and a smile.

❝ okay, i'll bite. what would you choose, chérie? any instrument laid in front of you, which is it? ❞

Claudia sighed and slumped in the seat as best as she could considering there was no back to it. She rested her hands lightly on the piano keys so they wouldn't make any sound and then swung her head round to look at Lestat, standing beside her, having been instructing her for the past however many hours. She didn't keep track of time any more these days. She didn't really need to. She was a vampire, the only thing she needed to fear was the sun and she could sense when it was about to rise.

"Les, why have I gotta do this? You're the best piano player I've ever met and I know I won't get better than you. Can't I pick another instrument please?" Her expression was gently pleading and she knew that she was giving him the puppy eyes like Louis called it.

@hostiae

[hostiae]

if dubai isn't an inconvenience. a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, exhaling an amused sound to the air. the reunion was one thing, but to have him reach out? all of the loneliness over the last seventy years seemed to be coming to a close. maybe. there's apprehension, of course, that it was only a dream that they could work again.

if it's what he wanted, he'd make the trip for him. he'd leave the shelter of new orleans, the comfort of the only city that had felt like home because the only other home was louis.

💬 to louis » 8,000 miles is never an inconvenience for you, mon cher. 💬 to louis » don't tempt me. 💬 to louis » but i meant more in the quantity of what i'd pack.

he pauses, several seconds passing before he adds quickly.

💬 to louis » i'll come.

@lavenderw-lemonade

Louis did not ready himself for a reply. Maybe it was the pessimist in him clawing at all his precious hope and sweet sincere longing with muddy anxiety riddled paws. Breathing before taking a few sips of wine from a crystal glass as new message notification sounds filled his otherwise quiet space. He sat for a long few moments , making meme worthy looks of disbelief to nobody but himself as he built up his courage once more. Finally, phone in hand with a knee tucked under his chin. Reading his illuminated screen until he couldn't contain a smile and chuckle of his own.

Was he inviting him here?

... looking around the vast space that was 'His' home. Yes , he was.

To Lestat: Yes, if Dubai isn't an inconvenience for you?

To Lestat: Thematic dressing, huh?

To Lestat: Gonna go full on Lawrence of Arabia? @hostiae

[hostiae]

there's a glimpse of trepidation at first. as if louis's next words would insult him or give him that pang of jealousy in the pit of his chest. it's never a good idea to talk about other lovers ( as much as lestat likes to preach about the fluidity of sexuality and the line between sating his physical desire and expressing a deeper, romantic love ). he wants to be seen in the light he sees louis in.

concern breaks for an exhaled laugh and he smiles despite himself.

perhaps it's his own ego that has a tendency to pull a conversation back to himself, to seek comparisons to feed his confidence. while lestat often had enough to go around, insecurity had a way of slipping in like a silent predator. tonight, however, that isn't the case.

❝ apples, oranges, ❞ he repeats, ❝ if you say so. ❞ there's a faint tease to his tone, and he shakes his head.

❝ you are the most unique i've met, saint louis. ❞

❛ ya don’t. ❜

every time he’s looked at by lestat, he feels a need to keep it that way. by inflicting hurt or pleasure, the two of which now make a singular coin he flips on any given day. that make him a worse beast than what he started out as? does it?

of all places lestat doesn’t touch him louis is aware as something needing desperate tending to. it’s ready to crawl to get it. it’s ready to hurl itself off somewhere deadly just to stop the damn shame.

lestat’s face is a marble graveyard angel, the most hypnotizing, pretty he’s ever laid eyes on. is it wrong of louis in any remaining, disemboweled sense to want that angel done justice to as they’re depicted, crying, aching, longing?

❛ apples, oranges. they were different. that uniqueness of spirit you preach. ❜

of flavor, but he won’t play by lestat’s terminology. that’d be a shouting distance from lestat’s rules.