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The blustery wind whipped at Louis de Pointe du Lac’s face but he couldn’t feel a thing anymore. The blood of the war-torn had made his vampiric body weary. As it turned out, miserable humans made for miserable meals.
Every night he slogged through the European rubble and fed off soldiers whose already sodden fate turned putrid at the fangs of his beloved daughter of darkness Claudia.
She was malevolence incarnate. And he? He was a ghost, something of a weighted stone bound to her ankle. He had no purpose but to be the burden that needed to be carried. And though they traveled together as a pair, one thing was unmistakable, they were no longer companions. As if strangers on the same tumultuous path, determined to search for answers to their shared ancestry, destined to find nothing but bones and ash.
Her righteous hatred made her quiet and the quiet sunk a deserved loneliness into Louis’ bones. She did not even deign to speak to him unless absolutely necessary, neither by mouth nor by mind. She had initiated a total extraction of his perceived rotten weakness, making them completely separate entities.
Louis did not see any other conclusion to this journey. He foresaw a great maddening, an unraveling of the spirit. At the end of this dark and harrowing tunnel was a flickering light. A flame so small it could be ignored for what it truly was: their inevitable demise. If something did not change and change well, they would never leave Romania, just like so many of their preternatural kin. Lestat said it best, they were wandering within a melancholic Purgatory. But could they truly be Lestat’s words if Lestat himself was no longer?
Years swept by like dust to a broom. The blood drank sick but their bond proved sicker still. And so was this era of Louis and Claudia.
And thus began what Louis referred to as the indulgence of distraction. She had told him once that she no longer dreamed, her hours of sleep were void of substance, as hollow and empty as the bellies of locusts without fields of wheat to plague. Such wasn’t the same for the imaginative Louis de Pointe du Lac and his relentless dreams of agony. The emptier his life became, the greater vibrancy he had to endure. All of which included only one star performer. Lestat de Lioncourt.
Lestat, turning him on God’s bloodied floor.
Lestat, showing him what it means to be full.
Lestat, screaming.
Lestat, laughing.
Lestat.
Lestat.
Lestat.
Lestat.
“Louis…”
Lestat?
“Oh, Louis~” The mocking voice sang.
Is that you?
There was that laugh again, the good one, the real one. “Who else would it be, mon amour?”
Louis was currently buried beneath the frozen dirt just outside an evacuated village. His eyes were still open. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet. But when he blinked, there Lestat was, looking down at him like they were sharing a coffin again, golden hair cascading past his shoulders, thick blood dripping from his split neck onto Louis’ face.
Drip, drip, drop.
Are you here to continue tormenting me?
Lestat hummed as his tongue slithered out to lick at the slick rogue on his lips.
“Is it truly a torment to press inside this undying body?”
So that’s what the new hallucinatory sensation was. Lestat straddled atop his lap, sinking onto Louis with a melodious tempo that warped his equilibrium, akin to when one had too much drink. Whether blood or spirits was simply dealer’s choice.
It was a fact that Louis hadn’t overly partaken in either for quite a while. Lestat was the sole reason for this gelatinous intoxication. His dreams had upgraded from lucid to conscious in what was a blink of an eye. A semi-regular interruption from his dreary life, not unwelcome or unusual, and somewhere in the very dark corners of his mind, Louis wondered if he and his brother were not so different after all. Where one brother heard the word of God, the other heard the word of Lucifer.
Though it mattered not if he shut his eyes against the visions of his former lover, Lestat would still be undulating his hips and breathing down his neck, coaxing Louis away from the bleakness he called reality, promising him salvation, and all at once, flinging him to damnation. There would be no escaping from what would not stay dead.
Louis, trapped beneath the frosty soil; Lestat, exuding the will to ride him anyway. A self-hating regret bubbled up his throat and it formed the word: Lestat.
“Yes? What is it, mon cher?” The unforgiving beast sighed, “Feeling the repulsive need to apologize once more?”
Hot tears slid down Louis’ temples, his eyebrows pinched into a pitiful furrow. He couldn’t deny the accusation.
“Please, spare me the humiliation, Louis.” Lestat drawled, fangs slowly unsheathing down his lip. He leaned close as if he meant to kiss him but instead he only smeared the blood of Louis’ betrayal onto his face. “I’d never felt more loved than I did in those weeks of warm honeyed deceit. Don’t wish to take it back now.”
Lestat dug his fangs into his neck and Louis groaned loudly from the rippling twisted desire that coiled inside him, enjoyed the act of being feasted on, of being drained. At least that would finally explain his inability to stop shivering.
Louis overlooked the dirt for the imaginary blood on his lips, sucking it cleanly off his chilled flesh. Lestat’s hole that surrounded him was nothing more than a vague estimation of the real thing. Tight and needy with the way it clung to his length. Lestat moved with the same matching fervor of his mouth, gulping down blood as he buried Louis inside himself, hips quick and precise, grunting against the wound he made of his neck.
Lestat—
It was a real shame, Louis thought, just how much Lestat hadn’t seen, just how much Louis had held back.
“Don’t say it.” Lestat warned with a tremble of intangible emotion, “Don’t say it now.”
Louis let himself wrap his arms around his Maker’s waist, whether real or fantasized was beyond irrelevant. Lestat sped things up, writhing sharply to feel the fullness of each stroke, gasping beautifully into Louis’ ear. When he pulled away from his neck with his mouth dripping crimson, Louis mistakenly thought he was about to be kissed yet again, but it wasn’t his lips he offered to Louis, but his slit throat. And Louis latched onto it like a newborn babe to its mother, suckling back the blood he had once drawn himself, dulled poison still lingering in its flavor.
“That’s it, my love,” Lestat moaned, his Adams apple shifting underneath where Louis fed from, “Feast on what’s forever yours.”
He bucked his hips up with frivolous abandon, chasing after la petite mort, eyes rolled to the back of his head, gnashing the flesh at his teeth, digging into the ridged windpipe.
When his release finally came and went, Lestat had vanished without so much as a word. Leaving Louis alone with a bitterly lonesome heart. His only choice was to sink into nothingness and painstakingly wait for the sun to fall.
Once Louis emerged from his frostbitten hideout, he had a mouthful of dirt and a freezing cold stain on the crotch of his trousers. It might’ve been humiliating if he’d had any dignity left. Still, he couldn't help himself as he glanced at Claudia, curious if she was privy to his brimming psychosis, but when he caught her eye, she simply gazed through him as if she saw nothing at all. Claudia had shut him out from her mind long ago and now it seemed she was visually impaired when it came to him as well. He doubted she cared to know how often he dreamed. It would surely only add kindling to her hatred towards him. Something he wasn’t quite sure he could help lessen anymore.