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[deathoftheauthor]

USERNAME: @louis Louis de Pointe du Lac The Vampire Chronicles TEXT • AUDIO • VIDEO • ACTION • OVERFLOW

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[deathoftheauthor]

( Louis exhales quietly, feeling a little bit seen, as they say, as if Lestat has read his mind and discovered intentions that Louis hadn't even recognized in himself yet. But of course the instant Lestat says it, Louis knows it's true. He had done just the same thing with Lestat's album, not just home in San Francisco when he'd first discovered it, but here, when it was all he had of Lestat and he didn't know whether he would ever see him again. He had listened to it every morning as he fell asleep, headphones over his ears or the sound drifting out of the speakers themselves, like a man reciting a prayer.

He smiles softly at Lestat singing, the sound stirring memories of their old townhouse in New Orleans and mingling them with the easy warmth of their little apartment. He loves to hear Lestat's voice ring throughout the house and know just where he is without having to listen for his heartbeat, like a bird singing for its mate in their nest. ) 

I had to listen, before. I wanted to, of course, but I had no other way to hear your voice.

( He threads the ribbon through their linked fingers in a loose weave that ties them together, looking down at his work with an a dreamy-eyed expression. )

I've never had the pleasure of hearing your music this way... with you here to share it with me. The song is a gift, and a beautiful one, and I will treasure it until the world has turned to dust, or I have. But having you here and bright and charming and alive is the greatest gift I could ask for.

Thank you, Lestat.

( He squeezes their joined hands, the gold ribbon glittering and wound around them like a bow. )

How long have you been working on this? Since we talked about it at the party you threw for me?

[perfectdevil]

[ Lestat watches Louis’ careful intricacy as he wraps the bow around his fingers and then his own, tying them as if bound by a string of fate, like stray threads of a tapestry woven back together after the elements threatened to make it fray. Undeniably, Lestat’s mind provides to him the image of a hand-fasting, and just the thought alone is enough to have his heart feeling slightly too big for his chest. Their pale fingers make the gold of the ribbon shine like sparks from a fire, enchanting him so completely that the song dies on his lips, leaving only the immortal voice on the tape and Louis’ soft, sweet murmuring.

His expression has softened to a look of wonder at Louis’ honesty and his unwavering tenderness as he holds Lestat close. Lestat wonders if he knows, if he’s any comprehension of the effect he has on him, if Lestat could ever make the instinct in him strong enough to overcome his self-doubt; Lestat knows now that it is no longer a matter of Louis believing Lestat’s words as the truth, but more the task of Louis allowing himself such sweetness. Until that day, Lestat is more than happy to remind him. ]

Oh, you make my heart sing to imagine you that way. I never thought it possible, when I wrote those songs in the first instance. It felt more like a swan song.

[ Perhaps that’s why Lestat had been reluctant to share them – he hadn’t wanted to truly believe that it could be over. ]

I thought about writing this new song down, perhaps even performing it for you. I didn’t know enough about how to make a recording to do so… but when the media store opened and we went to visit for the first time, while we were browsing I found a book detailing the process.

It was quite the ordeal. I’m still not quite sure how I managed it, and I’m sure it isn’t of the best quality.

[ He presses a kiss to Louis’ temple, as if in apology, though he’s certain he won’t mind. ]

But you can hear the words. That’s all I wanted.

[deathoftheauthor]

( Louis knows Lestat is clever and quick to learn new skills when he has a mind to, and that he can be single-minded and almost frighteningly driven when he has a goal to aim himself toward. But somehow, Louis is still astonished that Lestat would put all of that effort toward something entirely for him. The time it must have taken him, the skill to do it all right under Louis' nose when they spend so much time together — and the willpower to keep it all a secret when he must have been bursting at the seams to share it with his closest companion and his confidante...

To Louis, for whom a single thoughtful gesture means more than any material gift ever could, the imperfections only make it more beautiful. No studio, no band, no expensive equipment — just Lestat, and the truth of his feelings for him. )

It's perfect, Lestat. I can almost see you singing it. I can hear the way you're sitting in the sound of your voice, and in the distance from the microphone. And you're wearing your jewelry, of course — you always are, but I love the way it sounds, because I know the exact way you move without having to open my eyes...

( And, eyes shut, he leans in for a slow, sweet, and lingering kiss. )

I'm thankful that you didn't polish it so well that it lost its texture.

[perfectdevil]

[ Lestat is surprised to feel something like relief unwind in his chest, like a rope loosened from around his heart, the faint buzzing of static in the air lessened, soothed by Louis’ joy to have this tape exactly how it is. Lestat is such a proud man, always so focused on perfection now that he knows it’s attainable and now that his senses can pick up on how short any given thing can fall from being so, and perhaps he’d found it a little harder than he’s letting on to allow the tape to exist and be so unlike what he’d pictured in might be. He hadn’t expected Louis to pick faults in the recording, but he hadn’t expected to be so put to ease by his acceptance, either.

He smiles, the hand not wormed between the ribbon and Louis’ fingers coming up to bring his chin closer again, for another sweet kiss so earnest it’s as though through it, he’s trying to communicate some greater feeling without words. Whatever that might be. ]

I’m thankful you enjoy it despite its texture.

[ He kisses him again, more brief but just as warm, and lets his other hand brush over one of Louis’ knuckles beneath the golden satin wrapped around it. ]

And, I’m thankful you didn’t take my note for a tease. Though, come to think of it, are you really going to keep such a suggestive note as a keepsake? You better keep it away from prying eyes.

[ Okay, now he’s definitely teasing. ]

[deathoftheauthor]

( The brush to his knuckles makes Louis shiver and his toes curl in his woolen socks, and when Lestat says that, low and warm and fond, his heart skips in his chest. He lets out a breath of a laugh— )

What prying eyes?

( —and tips his forehead against Lestat's, the bridges of their noses nestled together in an almost-kiss. He's halfway in Lestat's lap now, one leg slung across his in his attempt to turn around enough to kiss him, comfortable, but humming with quiet anticipation now that he's been reminded of the last gift he has to unwrap. He's amused and not trying to hide it, the fingers of his free hand coming to play with the V of Lestat's housecoat, curling inward to lay between the fabric and his chest beneath it.

Playfully: )

It's the first time you've written a suggestive note to me in your own hand, too, you know. All the more reason for me to treasure it.

[perfectdevil]

Hm, good point. I suppose we've stopped letting the world know our innermost feelings. For the time being, at least.

[ Even if Lestat has notes - mental and physical - for the next installment of the tale of his life, he's quite pleased there will at least be some aspects of their life together that can be his alone. He's not sure Louis would let him publish everything.

As Louis' fingers curls against his chest, Lestat moves the hand that isn't wrapped up in the ribbon to run along the lapel of the soft, silk pajamas. His touch is a little firmer than is necessary for someone appreciating fabric, clearly more interested in feeling Louis' chest rise and fall beneath.

He tilts his head, his nose sliding against Louis' until their mouths are a mere breath apart. ]

Oh, let's not call a rabbit a hare, Louis. You know damn well that I could write you something much better than that, given the opportunity.