Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame | 1/2
Here is the first part of my submission to the 2023 @iwtvbigbang!
If you’re interested in emotional reunion sex and hurt/comfort with a side of extremely silly vampire fertility science, this is the Loustat fic for you ❤️
Also, HUGE thanks to @artgroves for the amazing art pieces she made for this fic! One will be embedded in each chapter, but please also show some love on her post and check her stuff out on tumblr @artgroves and AO3 @alby_mangroves!
Louis is sitting by the fire in his ratty old armchair with a book open in his lap when he hears a knock at his door. He shifts against the cushions and pointedly ignores it.
Louis, it’s me, a voice enters his mind, its tone and accent familiar. Armand, he recognizes instantly. I know you said you needed time alone, but things have changed. You need to come to Miami with me immediately.
Louis loudly turns a page he hasn't finished reading.
Why the hell should I? Louis asks, not bothering to hide his irritation.
After his emotional reunion with Lestat six months ago, all he’d wanted was some time to himself. He’d never actually been on his own before and he felt he should figure out who he really is outside of a relationship and what his needs are before jumping back into anything serious with Lestat—or anyone else, for that matter. The last thing he needs is his ex darkening his doorstep, demanding he go to Miami with him.
Armand’s reply is simple, but effective.
Louis hates the way his heartbeat picks up at the very mention of his name.
He’s… sick, comes Armand’s measured reply.
Louis sits there for a moment as he wrestles with his confusion. He has been a vampire for over a century and not once has he ever gotten sick.
Is such a thing even possible for their kind? And if it isn’t, why would Armand lie to him about it?
Louis sets his book aside and marches to the front door of the humble dwelling he calls his home these days. He throws open the front door and finds Armand standing at the threshold, dressed in dramatic black, his obsidian curls tousled by the wind.
“What do you mean he’s sick?”
