Chapter Text
They were playing piano together.
Two heads, blond and brown, tilted towards each other, slightly bent over the piano keys. Claudia had her hair in a fashionable updo, as was her habit these days, curls pulled up in a large chignon on top of her head. A single ringlet escaped the confines of her hairstyle, resting on her forehead. Louis had needed to push down the urge to kiss her forehead when he had seen her that evening. He knew it wouldn't be welcomed by his sister . Lestat kept his hair loose, soft golden waves obediently resting behind his ears like a restrained lion's mane.
Lively music echoed in their parlor, bright sounds playfully ringing in the air like the laughter that used to reverberate in their home. Louis swore he could see the music notes dancing off their upright piano, pairing themselves two-in-two and twirling around to the sound of the festive cheerful music, like in one of the animated cartoons they'd seen at the cinema a few weeks ago.
Lestat and Claudia had compromised on a modern composer. Igor Stravinsky. European of course, but an innovator of his craft, for the fluid and spontaneous rhythmic structure of his music and the everchanging motifs. Or so Lestat had told him two days ago when he had bought the new music sheets. His excitement had been palpable when he had pranced in their parlor, clutching the music sheets like a precious treasure, bouncing on the balls of his feet and rambling about vitality and harmonics and neoclassical influence.
Claudia had been unimpressed by the interruption of their reading time, and she had been even more displeased when Lestat had taken the book out of her hands and had dragged her to the piano. But her belligerent expression had slowly disappeared as they played the sonata, the tension leaving her shoulders and her eyes shining with joy.
The present found an echo in his memories. Claudia was concentrated on the music, her clever eyes jumping from one line to the other, but her expression was open and relaxed. A corner of her mouth was turned up, just like it was when she read Emily Dickinson. There was an ease to Claudia's movements that Louis found hypnotizing. He could spend hours watching her, marveling at the young woman she had become, the dignified way she carried herself, the strength she showed everyday, the protective nature of her love.
And Lestat…Lestat was beautiful . There was no other way to say it. Music pierced his soul like nothing else, save perhaps theater, and Louis swore he had never seen Lestat more at peace than in front of a piano. Lestat was moved by the music, emotions painting themselves on his face to the flow of the sonata, a triumphant bridge earning a sparkle in his eyes and slow melancholy drawing a frown between his eyebrows. The only constant through it all was the slightly opened mouth in awe of their creation. He was vibrant, alive in a way that should be forbidden to the undead, magnetic to the point of distraction even if he didn't intend it.
What struck Louis the most was how cozy they looked next to each other. Lestat leaned in Claudia's space to reach a key, brushing her shoulder. Claudia turned the page without losing the tempo and Louis spied a quick pleased smile on Lestat's face. Serenity draped over their shoulders like a warm blanket during winter, covering everything else except their enjoyment.
It looked like Heaven. It looked like peace.
It made his chest tighten just looking at them.
He was supposed to be reading. And he had been, with God as his witness, but even the sweet verses of Arthur Rimbaud couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to the painting in front of him. How could it, when it was everything his heart had ever desired? A wish so precious and sacred it had never seen the light of day when he had been human, not since he had understood that he couldn't change his sinful affliction even with his considerable will.
They looked like a family.
For a moment, the scene in front of his eyes changed. Claudia had her hair in twin plaits held together by red bows, the perfect accessories to her little sailor dress, and Lestat wore a white striped shirt with those wide short ties that were fashionable at the beginning of the roaring twenties. Claudia was vibrating on the piano bench, barely able to keep still, let alone pay attention to Lestat explaining musical theory.
Lestat had tried to teach their daughter to play the piano in those first years together. Yet their daughter had been filled to the brim with excitement and life, too restless for long lessons about arpeggios. Louis remembered clearly how Claudia had jumped to her feet and loudly proclaimed 'Your old composers are too boring, Uncle Les!' sparking Lestat's outrage. But she had smiled that sunny grin of hers that Louis loved so much, the one that showed her dimples, and had walked all over Lestat's defense of classical music. 'Uncle Les! The night is young and the skies are clear and it's such a shame to waste it on music lessons! Let's go out and do something fun!'. Not even Lestat had had the strength to withstand Claudia's enthusiasm, a fond smile breaking over his face.
Not that Lestat had abandoned his quest of sharing his passions with their daughter. His next mission had been introducing Claudia to the wonders of theater and he had dragged Louis into it as well. They had performed Shakespeare and Molière in that very parlor, their only rewards being Claudia's laughter and applause. They had played lovers and shrews, military leaders and clever valets, comedy or tragedy depending on her moods. Back then when Claudia had been in love with life, charmed by her new parents and the world they could offer her.
Back when they had been happy.
Back when Louis had a daughter , not a sister, and a lover he liked to call husband in the privacy of his own mind.
Louis shook his head and focused on the present. His mind had taken to wandering lately, running like a child through the fields, skipping from one memory to another almost like it was searching for something. He never figured out what that child was searching for and they ended up sitting in silence at the edge of the swamp, lost and tired, without an ounce of kindness to offer to one another.
He started the poem again, about a young soldier sleeping near the river, but he couldn't get past the first stanza. His eyes were pulled back to the piano, the light music and two pairs of brilliant eyes. Their old-fashioned lamps gave a golden glow to Lestat's hair and Claudia's skin, making their unchanging features look even more ethereal against the rich jewel tones of the townhouse. They reminded Louis of the Orthodox icons of saints he had seen in the home of an exiled Russian aristocrat Lestat had met at the opera fifteen years ago. The angels at 1132 Rue Royale.
His breath caught in his throat and he blinked back the tears welling up in his eyes.
Louis wished he could stay in this moment forever. All together as a family. He wished he had Lestat's gift of slowing down time so he could capture them and put them in a bottle for safekeeping. Or at least to allow him to get their Kodak camera from the bedroom and capture this moment on film.
Louis was painfully aware that this might be the last time he could see Claudia and Lestat existing peacefully next together and seemingly enjoying each other's company. The thought had slipped into his mind with the first musical bars and he hadn't been able to dislodge it. Every time Lestat smiled or Claudia hummed to their tune, he was struck again by the unmerciful passage of time, as it left him scrambling after each music note, foolishly hoping he could stop the song from ending and keep them together just a moment longer.
There were eighteen days left until Mardi Gras. Eighteen days until they killed Lestat and would be finally free of his suffocating tyranny, manipulations and threats. Eighteen days until they left New Orleans for good.
Only eighteen days of waking up in Lestat's arms, of reading poetry with his lover cuddled on the sofa, of looking at Lestat and Claudia playing chess and marveling at how alike they were. He would never have them under a roof together again. He would never read the paper and hear them arguing in the background again.
For the first time in his life, Louis understood Lestat's obsessive desire to keep them all together, locked up in hatred, compromises and bitter stalemates.
He let out a mournful sigh and closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to simpler times.
He wanted to call his sister.
For the first time in years he wanted to use the number obtained by a P.I. – hidden at the bottom of a drawer –, pick up the phone and call Grace . He needed to hear her warm no-nonsense voice, her loud laugh and the steel beneath her words. He wanted to ask for her advice.
Grace had been a source of comfort his entire life, up until Paul's death, and even beyond if he were inclined to honesty. She had been generous with her kindness, willing to offer a helping hand to anyone who needed it. Easily giving second chances to her loved ones. He'd know, he had been their prime recipient. There had been many moments in their life together when she should have turned her back in shame over his behavior – when he had drank himself to unconsciousness after Daddy's death, when he had shamed the family name by starting his business on Liberty Street, when he had come home smelling of another man's cologne - but she had given him only benevolence and grace .
But more than that, he had valued her advice, even if he didn't always follow it. He couldn't share all his problems, some too close to his heart to ever see the light of day, others were not a woman's business, but when he did, Grace would usually find a way out that he hadn't considered before. If she couldn't, she'd still be willing to offer a kind word and a sympathetic ear.
Most of all, Louis had envied her strength of spirit. Grace had a capacity to endure that could rival Lestat's. She never broke under the weight of her grief, she never hid from her pain inside a bottle, she wasn't a slave to the whims of melancholy. Louis used to think she should have been a man, the first born son instead of him, so their Daddy could have a son worthy of his name.
He had told her this one night, two weeks after Daddy's death, when she had found him in Daddy's office, smelling of cheap vodka and staring at the pistol on the desk. That day, he had gone through all of their ledgers and he had understood the depth of their financial difficulties. They were one step away from bankruptcy and from losing the house. And like the weakling fool that he was, he hadn't been able to withstand the responsibility that rested on his shoulders and he hadn't known how to pull his family out of the mud where they had been left. His grief had been consuming him, burning him from inside out while the walls of the study had been closing on him. He had just wanted it all to end. But he hadn't had the courage to do it then, just like he couldn't do it now. When Grace had found him, she hadn't cried or screamed that he was abandoning his family in their hour of need. No, she had wiped his tears, put the pistol away, straightened him up and pushed away the fog clogging his head until he could function again.
Louis hoped that if he called her, she'd do the same now as she had then. Maybe Grace would know how to get out of this purgatory he was living in, without mutually assured destruction. Because in eighteen days he was going to help his daughter kill his lover and he still couldn't quite wrap his head around it.
For a wild moment, he wanted to confess everything to his sister. He wanted to tell her about the Dark Gift, about that night in the church when Lestat had appeared like an angel of death and had offered his love at his feet. He wanted to tell her about the heinous crimes he had to commit everyday to stay alive, about the swoon that took over his senses leading him into bliss, about the way the world seemed more vibrant and beautiful ever since he was dead. He wanted to talk about the little girl he had saved from a fire, about dances in the courtyard, about birthday parties and Christmas presents under the tree.
He wanted to tell her about his broken heart that he had tried to mend so many times, he was afraid it would fall apart in his hands if he tried again.
But those were the nostalgic musings of an old man. He had turned 61 this year and not a wrinkle to show it. Face carved in smooth unfeeling marble, dead to the world and dead inside.
Grace had turned 59 this year. Did she look like Mamaw, silver in her black curls, all pulled up in dignified judgmental maternity? Had Levy made her happy enough to have wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiled?
He had meant to call before. During the depression. When things seemed the worst and the homeless people on the street grew day by day, he had hired a P.I. to track her down. He had wanted to ask her if she was alright up there in the North. If Levy's job was good enough to put food on the table for their three kids. He had stood for hours near the phone, a scrap of paper trembling in his hand, chest tight at the thought of Grace hanging up as soon as she heard his voice. Abandoning him once again.
Did she ever think of him? Did she at least think of Louis de Pointe du Lac, her older brother, the one she used to throw her arms around his neck in greeting? The older brother who sacrificed his soul day after day to keep her and their family in comfort and wealth. Did she ever talk to her children about him? Did the twins even remember their uncle Lou that used to bring them gifts? Was he just some ghost for them, a forgotten childhood memory they couldn't quite place? Had Grace buried him forever in their hearts as cruelly as she had buried him in that cemetery?
Bitterness burst in his mouth and he bit his cheek in irritation. Ten years since his sister had abandoned him and he could still feel the knife she had shoved in his heart while bestowing her death kiss.
A crash broke through his sour reveries.
Lestat had slammed the fall board of his precious piano. Claudia had already left the bench, as if she couldn't stand to be in her maker's presence anymore, yet she had plastered a polite smile on her face while she spewed her cruelties in a nicely wrapped package. Lestat didn't even bother with politeness anymore, openly insulting her, finding fault in every little thing she did and escalating the situation. There was so much poison between them, for a moment Louis wondered who it would kill first. Maybe himself.
The song was over. The magic was gone.
There was no point in thinking about Grace, just like there was no point in dreaming about golden moments long past their expiration date. The die was cast. Destiny had been notified of their upcoming betrayal and all there was left to do was play their assigned roles.
Lestat's yelling grated on his ears. He pinched the bridge of his nose. They couldn't let him pretend for one moment longer, could they? Waves of misery lapped at his feet, familiar to the touch, gently pulling him in the swamp of emptiness where he had made his home in the last few years.
"Now where do you think you're going, dear sister?" asked Lestat.
"Out. I need some fresh air. Maybe I'll hunt for a while," said Claudia tersely.
"Ah, but have you forgotten we have an appointment to the tailor this evening? He wants us there for our last fitting. The costumes for our Mardi Gras party must be perfect."
Louis could hear Claudia grind her teeth from the couch. But she was all dignified pleasantness as she said "I did forget. I'm sorry. I'll change into something more proper and we can go."
She left the parlor and daintily climbed the stairs to her room. The door slammed behind her.
"Histrionics, I tell you…" Lestat got up from the piano bench, shaking his head like a society mamma disappointed in her offspring's behavior.
Louis buried himself in his book.
"Did you enjoy our performance?"
"The yelling was over the top and a little dated at this point."
Lestat made his way to Louis, stopping in front of the couch. His smile widened.
"And pretending to be absorbed in your books while the world passes you by is also a tired act. Yet here we are."
"Here we are," said Louis. It came out more mournful than he intended.
A crease appeared between blond eyebrows and Lestat bent over, cupping Louis' face between his large hands.
"Ça va, mon cœur ? You seemed more melancholic tonight."
"Yeah, I'm – I'm fine." He couldn't lie to Lestat, not when those beloved icy eyes had him in their thrall. So he chose a reason, truthful from a certain point of view. "I was thinking about us, leaving."
Sadness flashed over his lover's face. Lestat stroked his cheeks with his thumbs. "I know how attached you are to this city. Your city. But you must know we are not welcome here anymore. In truth, we should have left years ago. It is a right of passage for every vampire, to leave their home and everything they once held dear, no matter how painfully it may be. Time touches everything but us." He almost sounded apologetic as he said it. Compassionate.
Lestat brought their foreheads together. "But do not fear, mon cher. We will be together and Buenos Aires will fill our heads with wonder and feed your curiosity. And slowly, one day at the time, the grief will fade away. It will get better."
A tightness started to crawl up his throat. It won't get better. It will never get better . He knew that in his bones.
Louis couldn't offer anything else than a feeble nod.
Lestat kissed his forehead. "Will you come with us to the tailor? I hate to leave you like this at home."
"It's okay, Lestat. I'll be fine. Like you said, it's a right of passage. I have to get used to it, that's all. Go, do your fitting with Claudia. I'll stay home for a while, pack some of our things."
"I don't think packing will help–"
"Lestat," he said fondly. "I'll pack a couple of boxes, maybe some clothes, that's all. I'll even go hunting later. I'll be fine."
Worry still ate at the corner of Lestat's eyes. "Are you certain?"
" I am."
They heard Claudia coming down the stairs, beating twice on the banister.
"It's ok. Go," said Louis, pointing his head toward the hallway.
Lestat caressed his cheek once more and kissed him. Chaste, sweet, warming his very soul.
"I love you, Louis."
His lips still tingled after they closed the front door.