Work Text:
1.
Louis reads the interview-book, his cloudy aching memory-collage reconstruction of the past, around the same time Lestat does. He was not sent a copy to edit, to critique, before publication. And yet, Daniel talks like he expected Louis to revel in their accomplishment. Proud of this angry, lonely thing they made together.
Would Daniel have expected Louis to intervene, if he read the book in advance? If he were forced to imagine it all, page by page, revelation by revelation, through Lestat’s wide unsuspecting eyes? All these words he spoke before he knew the truth, knew about his altered memories and twitching puppet-strings, returned now that they’re something like close again. Regrowing gardens. Which one of them, between Lestat and Armand, would truly have been heartbroken for Louis if he gave himself fully to the sun? Irreplaceable. Beloved.
Huh.
Maybe this is how people in stories feel, after making demon deals. Feels good, at first. Powerful, vindicating, real. And then, you learn the catch. Louis reads his book, Daniel’s book, subconsciously barely touching it, refusing to stain or crease or claim the paper, like distance affords him plausible deniability. Later, he’ll receive Lestat’s copy, scribbled and highlighted, some of the text blurred with vulnerable tears.
He reads that, too.
2.
On the flight from Dubai to the States, Louis reads a book about Commedia dell’Arte… the theatrical tradition he’s known Lestat was involved with for years, but that he’s never thought too deeply about. In retrospect, it’s funny that Armand described Lestat playing Harlequin unmasked. That’s not how the character would’ve been done; if Armand remembered seeing all Lestat’s wild expressions, he must’ve been playing someone else. Especially with Armand himself writing scripts, playing theater-master, at the time: everyone knows how Armand feels about rules, and the trickster Harlequin traditionally wears a mask.
It feels obvious, now, like the professional photographs hidden tucked between Louis’s own attempts. There are so many moments like this, lately, like Louis suddenly noticing stains in the wallpaper he knows mean creeping mold just underneath. It feels like a violation every time. And Lestat is so offended, seeing his role changed from Lelio to Harlequin. Gentleman lover to a rascal, stealing someone’s wife away again and again, from show to show. Did Armand see Lestat as someone who could steal Louis from him, leaving him lonely again? Well, yeah. The theft more than the romance. Did Louis see Lestat as someone who stole him from his own living self, from heaven?
The theft more than the romance.
Louis watches Commedia performances on his phone, a slight, bemused smile on like a mask of his own. Can’t say it’s the kind of comedy he’s really been into, but you know. Maybe it burns, knowing he’ll never see Lestat as he used to be, on stage. The young lover, so hopeful, without knowing how to think himself fully monstrous.
3.
Before he comes to the auction for Lestat’s recordings… for the Failures… Louis has been waking up in this strange and crumbling future. A world for the Queen of the Damned herself. And here, in this world where a bit of his leg was carved away and hidden or destroyed so that he can’t fuse it back into himself… here, in this world where he and Lestat aren’t sitting together in the auction hall, nudging ribs, whispering sly jokes… Louis is reading a book about desert birds.
Not at this exact moment, mind you. Right now, he’s staring Armand down across the hall, still hoping to outbid him. But back where he sleeps, whether he’s hidden or traveling or whatever else, he has a creased, battered book he picked up from the rubble of a city, partially-singed, held by countless mortal hands. It’s in his coffin, now, with a Lestat-concert ticket stub as a bookmark. It was probably from a private collection, before the world collapsed like this, or a used book sale. Louis reads it, and thinks of what he and Lestat still might manage to do when things quiet down again.
He thinks of Lestat closing his eyes, night air around him, wind toying with his hair. Saying, “Ah, Louis. Listen. That is the call of an elf owl.” Evening primrose blooms in antique flower boxes, perhaps carefully scrounged up, perhaps mismatched and tender, not expecting judgmental company; there are so many stars. Louis is reading something else, something that doesn’t sting like tears in the back of his throat. He tells Lestat about it, and Lestat listens, chin on his hand, smiling, smitten.
Louis is reading about desert birds, hoping they wait for him.