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Romania, 1941
There wasn’t much sun at all in the Romanian winter, which meant that two vampires from New Orleans didn’t get much shut‑eye, either. The sky stayed a bruised gray for days at a time, and the snow fell in a way that felt less like weather and more like a punishment. The cold seeped into everything—into the wood of the abandoned barns they hid in, into the seams of their coats, into Louis’ bones.
When it came time for Louis to sleep, he found himself lying awake and ruminating instead. He couldn’t understand how Claudia slept so soundly. She curled up like a cat, small and deceptively peaceful, as if the horrors of the night had never touched her. She had remarked on more than one occasion how unmoored he seemed. And how could he rest, when Lestat had been his anchor?
His dreams were plagued with Lestat’s image too. The firmness of his lips, the pressure of his fangs against Louis’ neck, the way his blonde mane was tousled and messy in the morning. But what was more torturous was the fact that Louis was starting to forget Lestat’s voice—whether it spoke sweet words of praise and adoration or quarreled with him instead. The cadence was slipping away, like a melody he once knew by heart but could no longer hum.
It didn’t take Claudia long to notice that Louis wasn’t getting much rest at all.
“I understand we’re immortal, Lou,” she would say, impatiently, “but you still have bags under your eyes about the size of those ones that a human makes tea with.”
“M’fine, Claud,” he’d murmur, rousing from not even a fifteen‑minute nap. His voice was always hoarse now, as if exhaustion had taken up residence in his throat.
“There’s hardly anything to sustain ourselves on,” Claudia pointed out. “The blood, for the most part, is no good. And when we found a single vampire, she burnt herself to a crisp before our eyes. We have to get out of Romania.”
The fear in her eyes brought Louis back to that very moment. The vampire woman’s scream had been unlike anything he’d ever heard, raw and devastating and eerily memorable. Louis had felt sick to his stomach, unable to believe what he was witnessing. Claudia, once stoic and strong, had collapsed into his arms, shaking and crying. She kept asking for her mother and father and aunt, and Louis didn’t have the heart to say, They’re all gone now, I’m sorry. You’ll never see them again.
He held her until her sobs quieted, until her breathing steadied, until she could stand on her own again. But afterward, she looked at him differently, like she was waiting for him to break next.
More and more often, he found himself wondering how Lestat would act in times like these. Lestat would have made a joke, probably. Or he would have raged at the sky, at the cold, at the cruelty of the world. He would have found a way to make Claudia laugh, or at least roll her eyes. He would have found them a warm place to sleep, a decent meal, a distraction.
Louis had none of those talents. He had only his guilt, his grief, and the endless Romanian winter.
New Orleans, 1941
Louis had been at the forefront of Lestat’s mind since that morning in the landfill, when, shrouded from sunlight in a blanket that smelled of rot, Lestat had stumbled back to their old townhouse. The house had felt cavernous without Louis’ presence, every room echoing with memories Lestat wished he could silence.
Blood tears had poured down his face that morning, and with no Antoinette to console him, he felt utterly alone in the world. But then, that had been Louis’ intended punishment, he realized, and this only increased Lestat’s feelings of helplessness. He had always been dramatic, but this was a new kind of despair, a quiet one that pierced the center of his soul.
He tried to busy himself. He redecorated the townhouse, tearing down curtains and replacing furniture, as if rearranging the physical space could rearrange the ache inside him. He bought a new piano, then another when the first one reminded him too much of Louis’ hands resting on the keys. He played until his fingers bled, until the neighbors complained, until he collapsed on the bench in a heap of silk and misery.
Now, in his redecorated place, Lestat was able to give his all to his music. He had long since cast away vanity, and his long hair hung below his shoulders. His eyes were constantly shrouded in tiredness. He fed only when necessary, and even then, he did it without flourish, without seduction. Feeding had once been a performance; now it was a chore.
He was surprised by the way the Americans were picking themselves up after the war. Lestat had never taken them for a resilient bunch. He watched them rebuild, watched them dance again, watched them laugh in bars and on street corners. Their optimism irritated him. How dare they recover when he could not.
The first ten songs he wrote all contained Louis’ name, and if not his proper name, then mon cher or some shortened version. He tried to write about other things, but every melody curved back toward longing. Every chord progression felt like a plea. Lestat became frustrated with how he was unable to shake the younger vampire from his mind and gave up, succumbing to hibernation.
Before he slept, he whispered Louis’ name into the darkness, as if the night itself might carry it across oceans.
Dubai, 2023
Louis was beside himself with anguish. How could Armand have lied to him all these years? And even more infuriating, how could he have believed it?
The penthouse felt suddenly too small, too bright, too modern for the weight of what he had learned. The glass walls reflected his face back at him—haunted, furious, betrayed. He paced like a caged animal, his hands shaking, his fangs threatening to descend with every ragged breath.
Yes, that was it—he hadn’t believed the lies willingly. He had been, in essence, brainwashed, torn away from his beloved Lestat even in the one place he deemed sacred—his mind. Armand had reached into him, rearranged him, rewritten him. The violation was intimate in a way that made Louis’ skin crawl.
He had thought, for a brief moment in San Francisco, that if there was a Hell, he would join Lestat there and they would be united in true death. It was all he was thinking when he had stepped into the sun. The warmth had felt almost gentle at first, like a hand on his cheek. He remembered closing his eyes, imagining Lestat’s voice calling him mon amour one last time.
Why had Armand spared him? For selfish reasons? Out of love? Out of fear? Louis no longer knew what Armand’s love meant—whether it had ever been love at all.
He sank to the floor, pressing his palms to his eyes. The memories were returning now, free of the complications that had wrestled Louis and Lestat apart. Lestat’s laughter, the fire in his eyes when he argued, the cleverness and charm of the way he acted. The way he had beheld Louis as if he were the only pure and unruined thing in the world.
Louis felt something inside him crack open. He had been living a half‑life, a curated version of himself. And now the truth was flooding back in, unstoppable.
He whispered Lestat’s name into the empty room, and for the first time in decades, it didn’t feel like a betrayal.
New Orleans, 2023
They collapsed into each other’s arms, sobbing, kissing, holding each other’s faces and whispering softly. Louis murmured variations on I missed you. I’ve missed you all this time, and Lestat made some sort of aria out of I never forgot you, not once.
Their reunion was messy, desperate, almost violent in its intensity. Louis clung to Lestat’s coat as if afraid he might vanish again. Lestat cupped Louis’ face with trembling hands, tracing every line as if relearning a map he once knew by heart.
After the storm had passed, they held each other tightly inside the same coffin once more. The familiarity of it, from the cramped space and shared stillness to the snug way their bodies fit together, felt like a balm.
And while neither had known perfect contentment, they were pretty damn close.