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Claudia had taken a liking to Kate Bush. Which was excellent, because it meant Lestat’s attempts to instill good taste in her were working. But for the past week, during every car ride, she had insisted that they listen to nothing but Babooshka at the highest possible volume. Babooshka was a masterpiece of course, but even masterpieces began to grate on the thirtieth listen.
But she was so excited today, so he indulged her, sang with her. Nothing could rob him of the joy of singing with his daughter, not even the lead weight in his gut. She was rocking the car back and forth in her excitement, pumping her little fists in the air to the beat. Lestat laughed.
“She signed the letter ALLLLL YOURSSSS!” they sang together, probably too loud. Someone might notice them. But he couldn’t bring himself to quell her exuberance for fear of publicity.
Lestat didn’t want to quell the excitement Claudia felt for Louis’s arrival either. He’d take great care to appear neutral about the visit, emphasizing he was pleased for her to spend time with him.
“Are you going to be weird around him,” Claudia had asked, hanging upside down off the couch beside him as they watched tv together.
“Of course not,” he said with a conviction he didn’t feel, “We’ve spoken since parting. We’re perfectly comfortable with each other.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not believing him.
“All the blood is going to rush to your head if you stay like that,” he said.
Claudia flipped right side up and looked at him in that way of hers. Like she could see right through him. She probably could.
“You want him back don’t you?” she asked.
Truly unbelievable, that immediate bolt of pain that shot through him at her question. Did he want Louis back? Of course he did. There was nothing else to want.
Lestat looked back at the tv, “We are on good terms. You’ll have a lovely visit.”
Claudia flipped upside down again, “Not answering is kind of like answering you know.”
He did know. Every time she’d asked him about Louis, which had been three times, he could remember them all clearly, he’d simply said nothing. Moved on from the question. What could he possibly say? It must be obvious to her that he was not…coping effectively. Pointless to lie and pretend he was.
On one occasion she’d called Louis a little earlier than she normally did. She’d been so excited to talk with him about a book she’d read, but Lestat hadn’t realized it meant she was calling him now. She’d been sitting in the window seat, and he’d been at the piano, playing nothing in particular. The phone had been on speaker, and Lestat had heard him answer.
“Hey, honey!” Louis’s voice had been cheerful, “I got class in a minute, is everything good?”
Lestat’s hands had stuttered to a stop on the piano, sounding out a discordant note. He’d stood and walked directly out of the living room and across the courtyard to the garage.
He spent a lot of time in the garage. A lot of time fixing up the car they sat in now while they were waiting for Louis at the airport. It hadn’t run when he’d bought it from the junkyard. The cars weren’t a distraction per se. He enjoyed working on them, he always had. It was as much enjoyment as he was going to get these days.
The song wound to a close. Claudia bounced in her seat.
“Play it again.”
Lestat signed, “That must have been the sixth time we’ve played it over the course of this journey.”
“It was the third time. You’re so dramatic,” Claudia said.
She was probably right but it felt like the sixth time. Suddenly her head snapped around, and a huge grin came over her face.
“Louis!”
Louis.
Claudia scrambled out of the car. Lestat heard her run to him, exclaiming, “I can’t believe you're here!”
Neither could Lestat. It had been a year. An entire year since he’d seen him in the flesh. But he'd seen pictures. It had become a masochistic habit of his, late at night, when he couldn’t sleep, to search Louis’s name and see what came up. He couldn’t decide what was more painful. The pictures of them together, when they’d been happy, or the new pictures that occasionally popped up of him now.
There were more pictures of them together. Louis tucked into his side as they walked across an airport's tarmac. Louis between Lestat and Claudia, holding each of their hands as they waded through a crowd. Them checking into a hotel, Louis with his arms around Lestat’s waist, resting his tired head on Lestat’s shoulder. Pictures from another life entirely, one Lestat could hardly believe had been real. But it had been, he remembered it in his body, in his bones. The plush feel of Louis’s lips against his. The clench of his thighs around Lestat’s waist. His sweet, desperate moans in Lestat’s ear. And Lestat would lay there so hollow with regret, so heavy with need, he felt like he might die of the combination. Nothing helped. Not rationalizing his rage, his choices, trying to justify his part in how things ended between them. Not taking himself in hand and trying to lose himself in the memory of Louis’s body. Louis was gone. Nothing could help.
But the other pictures were a different kind of pain. Louis in a club in New York, dancing with people Lestat didn’t know. Louis kneeling in a bookstore, Lestat unable to make out the title of the book in his hand, which would have been a blessing. Louis on a college campus, book bag on his back, coffee in hand, looking young and studious. Living a complete life, without Lestat.
And the absolute worst pictures were of Louis with that man. Molloy. On the train, their hands stacked on top of one another on the pole, leaning toward each other in conversation. Walking on the street together, Louis smiling up at Molloy like he hung the goddamn moon. The two of them embracing, Molloy lifting Louis up like he was going to carry him off.
Louis had gone to Molloy. He’d run away to him. He’d run away from Lestat, to him. Were they together even now? Did Molloy know the feeling of Louis’s lips? The paradise of being held between his thighs? The secret noises he made when he was pushed to the brink of ecstasy?
Those thoughts filled Lestat with such furious jealousy he scared himself. It made his head swim, made him feel out of control.
Some nights. Many nights. The regret and the need and the jealousy would get to be too much and he’d be driven from his bed and out to the garage. He just needed something to occupy his hands, his mind. Eventually, he would exhaust himself, and the engine would blur before his eyes, and he’d stumble back to the house and fall into a fitful sleep. Then he’d wake up, get Claudia ready for school, and try not to let her see how tired he was.
He could ask Armand. He knew Armand would tell him if Molloy and Louis were together, and precisely how. But he didn’t want to talk to Armand. Didn’t want to hear the censure in his voice that he’d heard in those first miserable days after the breakup. And in truth, Lestat didn’t want his worst fears confirmed. He didn’t know what he’d do. How he’d bear it.
Louis was here now. And his voice wasn’t coming across an ocean, it was right behind him.
“Are you crying?” Claudia asked him.
“Yes,” Louis said, “Yes I am.”
“Stop,” Claudia said.
Louis laughed, “I missed you so much, honey.”
Lestat had never hated himself more than in that moment. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. It was hard to find his breath. Because as much as he was happy for this reunion between the people he loved most in the world, as much as he rejoiced at his daughter’s and Louis’s joy, he’d felt a vile, unaccountable stab of jealousy.
I missed you so much, honey.
There was nothing Lestat would not give to hear Louis say that to him. What kind of man was he, what kind of father, to envy his own child someone’s love?
Lestat didn’t matter in this equation. What he wanted didn’t matter. This was for Claudia. Claudia was his purpose, his raison d’être. He would be damned, truly damned, before he let himself ruin this for her.
Lestat had to get out of the car. He had to make himself look at him.
He slid on his sunglasses, which was stupid, and futile, and made himself get out. Slam the door shut. Turn around.
Louis still had Claudia in his arms, and at the slam of the door, he looked up.
Lestat felt what he could only describe as a resounding sense of doom travel through his body.
He hadn’t truly believed he would ever get over Louis. There had been a vague sense that one day the pain would be less acute, fade to the background, and he could entertain other lovers. Placeholders most likely. But maybe he could come to like a few for their own sake. And now, looking at him, even that hope was gone.
Louis was the most beautiful creature on earth. Lestat hadn’t forgotten that. But this was a violent reminder. A reminder that he had no equal and that the rest of Lestat’s life would be fruitless longing. He almost laughed at the stunning, cruel clarity of the realization.
Instead, he smiled wide and said, “Hello Louis.”
Because why not? Why not just get on with things?
Claudia released Louis, and tugged at his arm, “Come on, I want to go home fast. I have so much to show you!”
She bounded back to the car. Louis was still looking at him, an expression of mild curiosity on his face. Lestat supposed he did look different. Certainly less glamorous.
Louis looked softer. It was his hair, big and full and luxurious. His eyes, their depth, their impossible sweetness that could not be captured in pictures. His lips. His neck. Lestat had dreamed about his neck.
“Hi,” Louis said mildly like they’d seen one another just the other day.
A good tactic to take, Lestat decided. Pointless, all these thoughts about lips and necks. Let him carry on as if nothing of note was happening. Like this week would not be the most finely honed torture Lestat would ever endure in his life.
Lestat walked toward him, smile fixed in place.
“It’s nice to see you,” Lestat said. The banality of the word nice in this situation almost made him laugh once again.
“Yeah,” Louis said.
“How was your flight? I know it’s long,” Lestat asked.
“Fine,” Louis said.
“Are you jet lagged?” Lestat asked.
“Maybe, not sure yet,” Louis said.
“Let’s hope not,” Lestat said.
Lestat could read nothing but polite interest in Louis’s expression.
Several weeks ago, Louis had called him to ask about this trip. When he saw Louis’s name on the screen, Lestat stared at his phone like it might be possessed, then scrambled to answer before it stopped ringing. And when Louis spoke, Lestat melted at the sound of his voice after so long. Louis started to ramble in that adorable way of his, which he did when he was nervous, “Sorry to call out of nowhere, I know it’s been a long time. I just have something to ask you, but it’s kind of awkward. And I know it’s out of the blue, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’ll understand completely if you say no. But I felt it was important to reach out and—“
Lestat had cut him off, and said, “What is it, Louis?” Because he’d thought, for a foolish instant, that Louis was going to say, I miss you. I love you. Let’s try again.
But he hadn’t. He’d said he wanted to see Claudia, that he missed Claudia. That Claudia had invited him to the farm. He’d been nervous because he’d thought Lestat would deny him a visit with Claudia.
But of course he wouldn’t. Claudia missed Louis, and Lestat could not deny either of them.
And now Louis was looking at him politely because he wasn’t here for Lestat.
Lestat leaned down to pick up Louis’s suitcase. A mistake. They were close now, and Lestat could feel his heat, the magnetism that Louis cast out unconsciously, that made you want to touch him, hold him, stroke him. Lestat stayed kneeling for a beat too long, overcome. His empty hand twitched at his side.
Lestat stood back up. Louis was here for Claudia. He wasn’t here to be pestered with Lestat’s longing. There would be no touching.
“Let’s go!” Claudia called from the car.
“The Queen demands our departure,” Lestat said, turning to open the trunk, depositing Louis’s suitcase within, and slamming it shut.
“Get in the back Claudia,” Lestat called to her.
“No,” Louis said, “No I’m fine in the back.”
Lestat stood still for a moment, absorbing this, that Louis didn’t want to sit next to him. Maybe he thought it would be awkward. It probably would be.
They started the long drive home. Predictably, Claudia wanted to listen to Babooshka again. And after that, she chatted happily with Louis about anything and everything. Lestat felt his spirits rise. She sounded pleased with her life. Pleased to share it. Lestat has never accomplished anything more significant.
But his good mood was not to last. Because when she was done talking about her life, she wanted to talk about Louis’s.
“Tell me about New York,” Claudia said, propping her head on her hands.
“What about it?” Louis asked, “It’s New York. You been there.”
“Not as a grown-up who lives there,” she said, “What’s it like? Is it fun?”
“Yeah it’s fun,” Louis said.
“Do you go out to bars and clubs and stuff?” She asked.
He did. Lestat knew he did. He’d seen pictures of him crowded into booths. Pictures of him dancing. Why had Lestat never taken him dancing?
“Whatchu know about going to clubs?” Louis asked.
“I’ve seen movies Louis,” Claudia said flatly, “Do you?”
“Sometimes,” Louis said, “If all my work is done and I can afford it.”
She rolled her eyes, “You are so boring.”
“Please, you’d think skydiving was boring if it was me doing it.”
“Probably,” Claudia said.
They had such easy banter, the two of them. They were so comfortable with one another.
Louis laughed, “I’ll have you know me and my friends have a good time.”
“What friends?” Claudia asked suspiciously.
“Why are you so mean to me,” Louis exclaimed, “I didn’t fly across an ocean just to be bullied.”
“Yes you did,” Claudia said.
Louis laughed, “I have friends, miss ma’am. Their names are Rachel, Brick, and Matt. And they are nice to me. Maybe I should go home and talk to them.”
He didn’t mention Armand or Molloy. Lestat has seen photographic evidence that Molloy was in Louis’s life. Was Molloy not a friend? Was he more than a friend? Had Molloy left Armand for Louis, and that’s why Armand wasn’t listed among Louis’s friends either?
“No. I'm your best friend. You said so,” Claudia said patiently.
“That I did. And that you are,” Louis said.
Lestat’s heart ached. Louis and Claudia loved each other so much. They could’ve been a family. They should’ve been a family, right now, and Lestat shouldn’t be learning about Louis’s life secondhand. Lestat shouldn't be sick with thoughts about the life Louis had with some other man. The three of them should have one life, together. They would’ve if he wasn’t such a fool.
Finally, finally, they made it home. Lestat carried Louis’s suitcase to the cottage and left him as quickly as possible. He needed a reprieve, a moment to himself. Kicking off his shoes and climbing the stairs quickly, he shut himself in his room.
He paced a small circle, eyes closed. This was for Claudia. Claudia loved Louis, and Louis was good for Claudia. He could endure. He could. Be a good host, don’t make Louis uncomfortable. Don’t humiliate yourself.
His eyes fell on the small stack of books on his bedside table. Books he’d scoured like ancient codices, like their words contained the secret of Louis, could conjure him before Lestat’s very eyes. They felt like a tether to him. As he read the words Lestat could know that Louis too had read them. Lestat could imagine the passage that captivated him captivated Louis too. That he felt what Louis felt when he read the final line. He could see in those pages some small glimpse of Louis’s beloved soul. He cherished those books. But it wasn’t enough.
“DAD! I’M HUNGRY!” The front door banged shut.
Dad. It was a miracle every time she said it. He was Dad. Being Dad was more important than anything else. It was one week. Lestat could endure.
He kept the attention on Claudia over lunch, where it should be, asking Louis the occasional question so he wouldn’t let on how truly miserable he was. There they all were. The three of them, eating at a kitchen table in a cozy house. This is precisely what their life could’ve looked like if he hadn’t destroyed everything. He could’ve seen Louis by the stove in the morning, grumpily pouring himself coffee. Could’ve walked by him reading on the window seat in the living room, Claudia across from him, a book in her own lap. Could’ve had Louis’s clothes hanging next to his in the closet, his shoes in the pile by the door. Could’ve had Louis waiting for him in bed when he came upstairs after locking up for the night. The whole house would have borne evidence of Louis's presence, his care, his love. His love, which was tender, intoxicating, honey-sweet.
Lestat excused himself as quickly as possible, heading to the garage.
He needed to start looking for another car. This one was only halfway done but he didn’t want to finish it and not have another project to do, nothing to occupy his mind. After a while the tumult of his thoughts faded. This car, he could fix. He could make this car whole again.
When his eleven o’clock alarm went off he headed back up to the house. Eleven o’clock was also known as Bedtime Battle Royal in Lestat’s head. It was a boundary he knew he had to strictly enforce, for Claudia’s sake, so he was willing to go as many rounds in the ring with her as necessary. He stuck his head in the front door. Claudia and Louis were cozy on the couch.
“Bed,” he said.
“But Louis’s here,” Claudia protested.
“I’m aware. Bed.”
“It’s summer,” she whined.
“You are so wonderful at telling me obvious things. Bed,” Lestat said.
“Fine. In a minute,” she said.
“Claudia—”
“In. A. Minute. God. I just want to say goodnight to Louis,” she turned away from Lestat.
Lestat inhaled, “If I come back here and—”
“I will go to bed in a minute!”
Louis was looking at her with that expression of his. Soft smile, raised eyebrows. That expression often accompanied the nickname “miss ma’am” and a gentle reprimand. Lestat knew she’d go to bed, even if only to please Louis and not him. He left and went back to the garage.
One day down. Six more to go.
Well, the day wasn’t down exactly. He’d probably be in the garage for much of the night, trying to ignore the fact that Louis was sleeping just yards from him. His legs tangled in the covers. His lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Shirt discarded due to the heat. Yes, he would be here for a while.
Lestat leaned forward into the engine, tilting his head, trying to get a better look. He needed to get a flashlight. Actually, he needed better lights in the garage. That could be a blessedly time-consuming project. He could install some over—
“Are you restoring it?”
Lestat’s head jerked up. Louis was standing there, with the same expression of mild curiosity as before, looking over the car.
Lestat stifled a groan. More enduring.
“Yes,” he said, “Well, I’m doing my best. I’m an amateur.”
Louis walked forward, “What kind of car is it?”
Lestat stood up straight and walked around to the car's right side, “Facel Vega. 1961.”
Louis walked into the garage and came to a stop in front of the car.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked. His big brown eyes roamed Lestat’s body. From his face downwards, then back up again. Curious, maybe not mildly. Maybe very curious. Had Lestat really changed that much?
Lestat wished he would stop. Just this, Louis’s beautiful, probing gaze moving over his body set him on fire. His hand curled around the lip of the hood, the metal digging into his palm. It was increasingly harder to breathe.
What did Louis want? Why had he come out here? Did he want to catch up or something insane like that?
Louis walked around the car to stand in front of him. Lestat could read nothing of his intentions on his face. What had he come out here to say? Did he really need to say it in such close proximity?
Louis looked up into his eyes. God. Lestat wished Louis would say something. Lestat had no idea what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to touch him. His muscles were taut with the effort of not touching him.
“Louis,” Lestat began, his voice weak. He’d meant to say Louis what do you want? Why are you out here? Will you leave so I don’t start to imagine impossible things? Lestat felt the pull of Louis’s body, swaying toward him involuntarily. Swallowing hard.
Louis stepped closer. Lestat inhaled sharply. He could not imagine impossible things. He couldn’t.
“Louis…” he said again. Because that’s all he could say. Louis, I love you. Louis, I miss you desperately. I can’t go on like this. Please give me something. Anything. The barest scrap. All of that must remain unsaid.
Louis just looked. Inscrutable. Silent. So beautiful Lestat went weak. And weaker. And weaker still.
Just a little, just the briefest touch. The smallest drop of water to slake his thirst. Lestat let his fingers graze Louis’s forearms. God. Even just that.
Louis’s eyes closed. Louis’s eyes always closed his eyes when he felt pleasure. Was it permission? Could he keep touching him? God, please, just a little more.
Be gentle, don’t get greedy. Lestat let his fingers glide along the base of Louis’s perfect neck. Up to his jaw. His breath was ragged. How had he lived without him, without touching him? How would he ever be able to go back to living without him again?
Lestat was overcome. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. Desire roared through him, and he snatched Louis to his chest, pressing the whole length of their bodies together. He buried his face in Louis’s neck, breathing in the smell of him, the feel of him. Oh god. Louis shifted against him, moved closer. Merde. He wanted him, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to have him. A year of longing, and Louis was in his arms again. Too much. But still not enough. Lestat wanted him naked, now, here, he wanted them both naked, nothing between them, skin on skin. He wanted to be inside of him, he wanted to watch Louis’s face while he brought him pleasure, he wanted to hear Louis whimper, hear him moan his name, which was the most beautiful sound in the world. He wanted to beg him for it. Louis, I love you. I need you. Please stay with me. Be with me. Don’t leave me again. Please, please, please. The words were pressing up his throat.
Louis’s hands rose to his hair. He squeezed Lestat tightly. His hands smoothed up and down Lestat’s back in what felt like a gesture of comfort.
Comfort. Louis was comforting him. He’d come here to make peace. And Lestat was thinking about fucking him on the filthy floor of his garage.
Lestat pulled away before he could make an even bigger fool of himself.
Louis stumbled at the suddenness of their parting and looked up at him, gentle brow knit in confusion. Lestat hated himself.
“I couldn’t even go a day without touching you,” he said bitterly.
Then Lestat strode out of the garage, on fire with lust and love and shame.