#dontburnaloneexchange

[deadboyslullaby]

@frogbehindthescenes , here is your gift for the #dontburnaloneexchange ! i tried to incorporate corsetstat as well as some of your other requests ~ 🎀⚰️🩸

[madnessmaker]

I wanted him dead I wanted him all to myself

For the don't burn alone exchange gifs for @deadboyslullaby who asked for corsetstat, Louis being possessive, when Loustat look at each other and it's like everything around them disappears and they're the only two people in the entire world.

The collage backgrounds feature artwork by Steven F. Arnold. From a young age, Steven was exploring gender fluidity and non-binary consciousness.

[surrenderdorothea]

On Whump (well, mostly H/C) 

A number of years ago, when I was in the Supernatural fandom, a post came up on a blog for fic requests. The person wrote that they were having a terrible day, so “could someone please rec a fic where Dean assaults Sam?” I laughed, both because the request looked ridiculous (this person was a Sam fan) and because I absolutely understood it: when my day is hard, I love nothing more than a fic where my current favourite is put through the wringer, and this is a pretty common sentiment in fandom. 

So when I got matched with @boopboop800 for the #dontburnaloneexchange, I decided to do a little research on whump for the person whose blog proudly proclaims “Here for the whump.” There isn’t a lot on whump in and of itself, but there has been work done on hurt/comfort as a genre, so most of what I present here will be looking at the larger category. I am not presenting these ideas as my own; to be perfectly honest, I haven’t decided yet what I think whump and h/c are about for me as a reader, and I don’t fully agree with all of the arguments put forward here. But I thought it would be interesting to see what academics have been saying about a genre that is so essential to fan fiction as a whole. 

Section 1: Masculinity, Vulnerability, and Intimacy 

A lot of the research focuses on hurt/comfort as a means of subverting heteronormative masculinity, particularly invulnerability and stoicism. Chera Kee’s essay, “Poe Dameron Hurts So Prettily,” quotes a Tumblr user who states, 

“There is, then, something appealing about...seeing the untouchable become touchable, the unhurtable become hurt, the invulnerable made vulnerable... seeing someone who usually shrugs off any kind of trauma or pain having to actually deal with that pain, and become vulnerable and more real as a result...”

Early fan scholars similarly linked the H/C genre to a broader homophobic culture; Camille Bacon-Smith argues in Enterprising Women (1992) that  “Sex and pain are the two situations in which masculine culture allows physical and emotional intimacy between adults of the opposite sex. If sex is prohibited by the social constraints under which the writer works, either because the participants are not of opposite sexes or because the writer feels constrained to limit sexual material of any kind in her work, she may substitute the only symbolic alternative to sexual intimacy available to her” (256). 

While I do not know how relevant this still is to h/c stories today, this argument does fit in with narrative tropes in mainstream action film and television, which have often relied on violence and torture to create vulnerability / intimacy between men that is not allowed without the presence of pain. Henry Jenkins’s description of h/c stories largely aligns with Bacon-Smith’s: “Such stories provide a plausible reason for these ‘men of action’ to overcome their stoicism. The evoked emotions may be fraternal, maternal, romantic, or erotic, depending on the fan’s interpretation of the series; what matters is that affect gains overt expression within scenarios of growing intimacy and trust between the two protagonists” (174). 

This movement from vulnerability to intimacy seems to be a major focus of many theorists. Elizabeth Woledge presents the “hurt” part of the binary as almost secondary to the “comfort”: for her, the pain is there simply to aid in the "eroticization of intimacy”: “Hurt/comfort provides a plausible way for any author to depict increasing closeness between two men, because when the hero is hurt, he is at his most vulnerable. The element of hurt permits him to share intimacies that would otherwise be kept private" (2006, 110). 

[What’s interesting to me about these theories is how much they want to ignore/avoid the pain at the heart of this genre. There seems to be a disavowal of writerly/audience pleasure in the representation of pain itself; in Bacon-Smith’s case in particular, she quite openly expresses her distaste for the genre, and all of them are more interested in the pain as an excuse for the intimacy.] 

Section 2: Projection and Identification 

While the theorists I’ve discussed so far have focused on h/c as a way of challenging masculine stereotypes and norms, other critics think through the genre as a form of projection: that we write and read about the suffering of our favourites as a way of navigating and exploring our own pain and need for comfort. Such analyses rely on Cornel Sandvoss’s identification of fandom as narcissistic [note: he is referring to narcissism as a normal part of the human psyche, and not to the disorder.]

 “the object of fandom [is] experienced not in relation to the self, but as part of the self, despite constituting an external object.  The basic premise of my argument, then, is that the object of fandom, whether it is a sports team, a television programme, a film or pop star, is intrinsically interwoven with our sense of self, with who we are, would like to be, and think we are” (96). 

[So if you have ever wondered why, as fans, we sometimes perceive any criticism of our favourites as a personal attack on ourselves, this might be what’s at work.]

Judith May Fathallah’s essay, “H/c and me: An autoethnographic account of a troubled love affair,” acknowledges this specific aspect of the genre:

 “"One of the things I love most about reading and writing hurt/comfort," says fan fiction writer Mokibobolink, "is that it gives my favorite characters a chance to be the center of attention" (2010). I like this aspect too—and I suspect, given that I like the hurt party to be the character I identify strongly with, that it fulfills my perpetual younger-child need to be noticed and valued in comparison with other people.” [3.3]. 

The point being made here is an important one. For the Supernatural fan I mentioned who was hurting, and who wanted a story of her favourite being hurt, the connection makes complete sense through this logic: the pain of the character leading to them being a source of attention can be understood as the pain of the writer/reader wanting to be seen, to be important, and perhaps, to be comforted. 

Fathallah states further that “I like the attention and appreciation bestowed on the hurt character to equalize differences of rank, race, class. I do not want the characters I see as privileged to be hurt; I want them to do the comforting and the worrying and the appreciating.” [3.3]. I think this is a common sentiment; Jan Radway argued back in the 90s that women reading romance novels in which heroines were hurt or assaulted weren’t so much reveling in violence against women, as they were fantasizing about being the object of care, especially for women who were expected to do all of the caring in their day-to-day lives. So while the narrative around whump and intimacy as about challenging masculinity focus on strong men made vulnerable, the argument about projection might account for why we want to read about already vulnerable people being made more vulnerable. 

Conclusion: Pain and Power and the Pleasure of Writing

These readings of whump and h/c link the genre to explorations of power relations, and many of them rely on Elaine Scarry’s excellent The Body in Pain (1985), a text that focuses on both the inexpressibility of pain (pain escapes language, and one’s own pain is often not believed by or legible to others), while at the same time, there is nothing more real than pain for those who are experiencing it. While I think there is some efficacy to the theories I’ve put forward, I lean toward the idea that writing pain provides a challenge to writers; for Rachel Linn, h/c stories are “explorations of power and metaphysical knowledge”; by putting characters through extremities of pain and suffering, h/c and extreme whump authors “reconstruct the universe in light of a horrible new knowledge that they are subject and object, person and corpse. The struggle to find meaning in light of this knowledge fuels horrifying h/c and draws in readers who want to see whether words can tear apart the world and remake it. They want to see whether pain's crushing power and the resulting abjection can be breached and remolded. It is this optimistic promise that one can face the void and return that gives horrifying h/c its strange fascination.” [7.9]. 

This makes sense for me, particularly in terms of Interview with the Vampire fandom; Anne Rice herself puts characters like Armand and Lestat through continual torture and suffering as an exploration of identity being unmade and remade again and again. 

Maybe we read h/c because we have a fascination with violence, even those of us with an extreme distaste for it in real life. We want to look into the abyss, safely, and whether that satisfies a psychological need, a sexual one, an emotional one, or an intellectual one, really doesn’t matter. I have to agree with Fathallah’s conclusion: “This is why I cannot—and think I should not—attempt a totalizing theory of h/c. Its affect needs to be interpreted through these social/personal histories, parts of which must necessarily escape us. We can theorize its potential and effects; we can describe our experiences of it to each other, look for more or less frequently recurring patterns in its pleasures and problems, and try to understand what that tells us about ourselves and our communities in the context in which we live. But the attempt to say what it is, and why people like it, will only lead us back to the exhausted, self-consuming mystery of an individual human nature detached from politics.” [3.7] 

[smcubed22]

It is the face time!

Dear @gigi-sinclair,

Between you and me and the Tumbles, I was more than a teensy bit intimidated on drawing your name for the exchange. I've read and deeply enjoyed all of your IWTV work. I freely admit to gnawing on the bars of my enclosure waiting for the last bit of Compatible. It's the kind of fic that makes me so fucking salty at my sworn enemy, the you've-already-left-kudos here notification.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy this kind of silly FaceTime fic as an attempt at happy/hopeful Loustat! My personal hope is that it still tastes okay given that it's my first time writing for this fandom. Thank you very much from the bottom of this fic-reader heart for all that you've contributed to it. 

A toast to not burning alone in this wait for S3! And of course, thank you to @the-beautiful-unwell for organizing the Don't Burn Alone exchange and giving this little fic a preview to set my anxious beans on ice. Both very appreciated!

******

"It is the face time!"

And Lestat, excitable bastard he is, kicks up his feet in the carriage. A month ago, I couldn't get him outta that rathole cottage. Now we in the Walmart at barely seven pm. Any decent vamp would still be in coffin. Not this guy.

I can't help but snap at him. "Just FaceTime, you dramatic piece a—"

"Yes, yes, time for Louis' Face," he waves me off with a few wild flicks of wrist. People look at us. Whatever, people were already looking at us. Have been since he poured himself into the cart and started wheeling it along with the mind gift. I'm walking by the push bar so the humans don't start yapping on about how the Walmart got ghosts. This city don't need more trouble.

His sharp fingernails scrabble to slide the bar and pick up for Louis. The theatrics about roll my eyes for me. "You crack that screen again, I'm not buyin' you another."

I'm lying, okay? But Lestat don't need to know it. Probably does anyway because I went out and got him another the nine times he broke the iPad. Every screen protector had to be stronger than the last. Look — it's just that he bawls worse without something to plonk his hands to, and it's not like the money is mine. He hooked me up to whatever flush accounts he keeps with the frogs awhile back. It's an unspoken thing, that he don't really care how I spend the cash. It's an unspoken thing, too, making my way back to NOLA a time or two a month to check up on him. Bring a bag of the only shit he'll fucking eat, replace a rat-gnawed charger, make a phone call or two. Nailing a buncha Star Wars Christmas decorations to the roof one real screwy February night. Don't know why. I was too busy trying not to fall through the shingles to listen much, and no words of mine would convince him that Baby Yoda ain't no gremlin.

"Louis!" Lestat shouts his greeting, and the guy himself fills his phone screen. Real handsome, that Louis. I'd be floored or something if I were into men. As it is, kinda hard to look away from his eyes.

"Where are you, Les?" Louis frowns. More a trying to place shit frown than a pissed off frown, I think. "It's a bit louder than Jackson Square."

"Louis!" If I didn't know better, I'd guess it's the only word Lestat remembers. Does nothing for that frown, which notches another level south when he catches sight of me. It don't stop Lestat, of course. He continues at something closer to a reasonable volume. "Hello, Louis. I have found something extraordinary I was hoping to share with you. It is called Walmart."

"Yeah, all right." This, understandably, doesn't clear much up for Louis. "Why is Felix pushin' you around in that cart?"

With the heat I'm catching from the narrowing green of that stare, pretty sure his real question is why is Felix here?

"I ain't pushin' him," I say, because he ain't my baby. More like my haunted peepaw, adopted on accident.

"Did I ask you, boy?" Louis says. I shut my trap.

"Louis," Lestat says, clearly impatient to tell his long lost lover who might be some kinda vamp billionaire prince outta the Emirates about how he personally discovered the Walmart. "Never mind Felix. Roget is managing my….various mundanities. Until he provides my identification and secret score, I cannot make use of the plastic card that you wield so well. And so the millennial must suffice."

So glad to suffice. Wish I could be sufficing back in my coffin.

"Secret score?" Louis takes a break from the whole poetically furrowed brow thing to ask.

"Credit score," I translate. That seems to irk Louis right off again. Yeah okay, fuck me for helping. I punt it back to Lestat, it's his fault anyway. "What makes it secret?"

Lestat scoffs like I'm the geezer here. "Siri has no access. I searched the libraries of Google, located several reporting sources, and yet! I am not meant to view the secret myself." His face can't seem to decide if he loves this or thinks it's stupid as hell. "A paradox — how requesting to see the score lowers the score. A bride intent to chide me for not waiting until the wedding day when she was equally enthusiastic."

To be honest I can't blame Lestat much for not getting the whole credit score thing. He might get it more than I do, and I'm under fifty. I can still blame him for knocking some decorative pillows outta the aisle with his chatty hands though. Gonna give Louis a dizzy spell with all that flailing about.

Except Louis' smiling. A shy thing almost, like he's fighting the pull on his face. But real enough for Lestat to look like he's standing out in the sunshine and it don't hurt at all.

"You pulled those credit reports, didn't you?" Louis says, going for critical while he works at swallowing a laugh. He don't really succeed on either measure.

Lestat smiles, too. Not the big manic billboard grin I'm used to walking away from as fast as I can or risk winding up with more weird shit to fix to the roof. A curl of lip that's slow. A bit lopped to his scarred side. Maybe even sweet, to a beholder who's into that. "All three, Louis."

"You know you can ask me, yeah?" Louis says, after making me stand in the aisle way too long picking up pillows while they make dramatic eyes at each other about finance 101. "When searching the libraries of Google don't cut it."

Lestat's smile dries to plaster right there on his face, the fake of it just about as paper thin as Louis' censure. But calling bullshit would see my shoelaces set on fire by one or the other. "It was not Thursday, Louis. Louis calls on Thursdays," Lestat recites. Like he needed another fucked up mantra. He got about as many of those as broken iPads. In the month since Louis, I heard this one a few times. Mostly when he thinks I'm not listening or forgets I'm there.

Still, better than it used to be. I shove pillows back onto the shelves and catch Louis sighing at him. "You can text me on a day other than Thursday to ask questions like that."

"Oh?" Lestat tilts his head, spilling a bit of frizzy blond out the hood of my sweatshirt. Gotta get him some clothes that were made sometime this decade. "And how am I to determine which questions are like that?"

"How about you tell me what kinda questions you'd text Felix?" Yeah, I don't think it escapes Louis, whose sweatshirt Lestat's got on.

"Not a part of this," I say. But the pair of them might as well be deaf. I can't tell if that spells a better or worse future for my shoelaces.

Lestat huffs. The familiar pose loses some pomp without the frayed luxury of his fancy robe. "I would not send Felix such a message at all. There is no need for the inconvenient magic box."

"Magic box my ass. You know good and well that's an iPhone," I say. And yeah, the selective deafness continues.

"So now it's inconvenient —" Louis starts, then seems to pivot with a thought that pulls him away from the close-up shot we were getting. "…You didn't make him?"

Lestat laughs. At least Louis and I can agree on being offended about it. "Oh, no. Dear Felix is — comment on dit — friends with benefits."

"We sure as shit are not," I put my hands up, and the fucking ghost cart wheels on ahead without me. "My benefit ain't gone anywhere near yours, old man."

"But we are friends, yes? I benefit from your assistance with the current era, and it is beneficial to you, hiding in my vampiric footprint from…" he rolls his hand vaguely. One of the decorative pillows I had put back flies into his waiting palm, and he drops it onto his legs with minimal ceremony. "Whatever difficulties du jours dog your steps."

Difficulties du jours. Great. I'm so glad my problems are taken seriously here in this Walmart.

"Fine," Louis says, measured in his relatable irritation. Not like I'm happy to be here either. "It's fine that you're busy with your friend and all those benefits. Maybe we can catch up next Thursday."

That pops Lestat from his bullshit. Good. No way he listen to all that music and don't know what friends with benefits means. "I am not busy, Louis," Lestat insists. "I wished to speak here because I wanted to show you."

"Show me what, the Walmart?"

"Yes!"

"Why?" Louis says, up close and scrunched at the nose.

"Everything here!" Lestat sweeps his arm around, like it should be obvious. "These — the inventions, garments, furniture, decor. Each imagined, manufactured, delivered in answer to a specific human desire. In every possible color, Louis! All in one place, so they flock to it with their every want and find more wants to collect. The store itself, a gargantuan monstrosity built in mere months!"

The gargantuan monstrosity bit gets us a shitty look from the employee stocking headphones. I grab a pair for Lestat so I only have to listen to one side of this next time. Lime green will be harder for him to lose, right?

Louis calms in his close up. Maybe even enough to save the laces on these shoes. "…I guess it would be new to you."

"Then you have been here?"

"Not to that specific — well," Louis stops thoughtfully. "You know what, I never actually been to any of the stores."

"Would you like to see this one?" Lestat asks, gentler than I've ever heard him speak. "If Walmart is, as they say in these times, nothingburger, we can partake in our more customary route."

And leave me here in the Walmart at the crack of sunset and short of a hoodie. Sounds about right.

Louis shakes his head. Then on the screen, I see him sit his chin in his hand. "Show me," he says. "If you can swear never to say nothingburger in my face again."

Lestat brightens up, a wilted thing with a bit of rain. "Of course not, Louis! Of course — Oh!" He hops out the carriage and all but twirls into the kitchen appliances aisle like we at the sweatsuit ballet. "Here is where I noticed the sous vide machine you mentioned last week, when we spoke of more inventive methodologies to prepare the blood." He presses his phone right up to the cardboard, surely blurring its lettering. "A very clever thing you've discovered."

"My chef curated the method for our needs," Louis defers, managing to sound a bit pleased at the same time. "But I did work with her to refine the flavor."

"Magnifique! Do you require any spare machines? They are here in surplus."

Louis chuckles, and I gotta wonder if maybe I might be into men. Like a hall pass amount. "No, Lestat. I don't need any spare sous vide machines from the Walmart."

"Very well," Lestat says easily, sliding the thing back on the shelf and processing to the next shiny. "How about this one? The Soda Stream! You can…" he drags his finger on the box, just under the marketing tagline. "'Enjoy personalized sparkling drinks at home.' Have you added a sparkle to your blood, Louis?"

A nosy old lady pauses at the end of the aisle, her mug getting more sour by every minute spent dropping eaves on them.

"Big fans of Halloween, those two," I say. She whirls around at me with a caught out start, and then I remember it's August. "…Gotta start the menu real early or the cocktails won't be convincin'."

The lady stares all suspicious, saying not a goddamn word. I'm about to ask if she wants a fucking picture when she moves on with her cart of on-sale Tollhouse and miniature footballs. Before I can get too jealous of whatever night she got planned, I hear the laugh lingering in Louis' voice. "Really not sure how well carbonating blood would go. Might make it too acidic."

"You could try it," Lestat says. "Lemons are acidic, the revolutionary album you recommended to me is titled Lemonade."

"Or you could try it," Louis suggests. That heel turn of subject stops my feet quick, and I pretend to be real interested in a Keurig model I don't fucking need. Louis' taking another swing at the giant rat in the Walmart, and I'm rooting for him, honest. "Use a few of those blood bags I sent you. Courier says they startin' to pile up."

"Oh, that will not be an issue. You see, there are miniature refrigerators specifically for drinks in aisle fifteen. I only need to choose a color. Would you help me select one, Louis? I am between the eggshell blue and —"

"—Les."

I hear Lestat drum his nails against the Soda Stream box. "Perhaps…we can try it at the same time. I can purchase two appliances. Mail one of them to…" Carefuling that diction slows but doesn't stop him, "To a location of your choosing."

"…We can do that," Louis says, careful too. Also conceding? Definitely relieved, like putting down something heavy and feeling all sore armed. I'm relieved, too. Not like I wanna shove more rats in a bag or see that old man drink them down. "Yeah. But you know you don't gotta mail it. I can buy one online."

"I would like very much to send it by mail," Lestat says. I sneak a look, and he's holding real tight to that box. It's kinda mangled. We'll keep that one for him. "If that is amenable to you."

They're both quiet for a minute with each other, deaf to the loudspeaker announcing a clean up in aisle three. I stay facing the Keurig, reading on the blends of Green Mountain coffee I never even wanted to drink when I was alive.

"All right," Louis says. "I got an office box. I'll text the address, but you better send it express if we're gonna do this next Thursday."

And just like that I know I'm about to spend way too much of my night in the stationary section enduring at least 99 opinions about ribbon. But it's hard to really care about that, peeking over my shoulder to watch Lestat bound ahead, haunted cart with the Soda Streams squeaking its wheels behind him as he asks Louis about his redecoration project.

Because I can see it now, kinda. The outline of who he used to be. This ghost who passed all his time with them other ghosts filling himself in just that little bit more. For Louis, I guess. The real guy, not the ghost he always calling out for. One of them ghosts, anyway. Not sure the one he calls Claudia can leave.

But that Louis really is alive. Or not dead dead? Present enough to be talking to him. The only thing I know about any of it — I ain't about to lose more than shoelaces interfering with the shit those two got between them. Best to keep back.

Keep back and, well. Maybe see to it that some extra stuff lands in that cart. Haunted peepaw is paying.

*****

*Note that the bit about sous vide blood is inspired in part from Hunting for Your Hot Heart by Persuna, which I enjoyed very much. And also by all the sous vide dishes my brother has been sending me pictures of for the last month after purchasing his from Walmart lol.

[angstosaur]

A walk in the park (IWTV/TVL flashfic ~2600 words)

For the #dontburnaloneexchange a flashfic for @educatedinyellow who asked for some sweet Loustat reconnecting between S2 and S3, before Lestat found out about the book.

I hope this fits the description! Here's to positive vibes for our star-crossed lovers ❤️❤️❤️

Also on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85205296

A walk in the park

Having found Lestat, in a condition that had shocked him, Louis had been reluctant to leave as soon as he did. But there were matters to be sorted out back in Dubai. Not least of all a disturbing text message from Daniel:

‘What advice would you give to a recent recipients of the gift that can’t be returned? Asking for a friend. Giver of said gift gone AWOL.’

Therefore it had been longer than he’d planned before he managed to catch up with Lestat in person. Sure, they’d kept in touch on FaceTime, but he itched to have his … his what? Lover? Ex? Friend? Husband? All of the above? He just wanted Lestat back in his arms.

After Odette had wreaked havoc on the more vulnerable dwellings in New Orleans, including the shack where he’d found Lestat, he’d stayed a couple of days and then given Lestat one of his own credit cards so he could either stay in his hotel suite, or find other accommodation. During the time they’d shared the room, Lestat had slept in the coffin while Louis had made use of the bed. It was too soon for anything else. Neither had needed to say as much, but at the time they were just glad to be in each other’s company again.

Two months had passed when Lestat informed him that he was looking into purchasing property in Montreal. For reasons that Louis understood, he did not want to remain in New Orleans. The only reason it had taken him two months to consider moving was that he needed his solicitor in Paris to arrange new papers to be sent to him, such as visas and passports on account of his previous documentation being several decades out of date.

It was only then that Louis realised Lestat hadn’t been out of New Orleans since he’d returned there after the trial. He suspected that Lestat would have treated that as a form of penance, staying in the city where they had once shared so much … enduring squalor where they had once had a family.

Naturally, when Lestat announced his intention to move away, Louis understood. New Orleans held too many memories, good, bad and downright ugly. And then, when Lestat asked if Louis would accompany him to Montreal to find a suitable residence, Louis had barely managed to supress his excitement.

“Sure. I can do that.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose on you … after all, you are a busy- ”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Where are you planning on staying in the city?”

“The Ville-Marie Borough. It is close to the areas I am interested in and is close to both the Museum of Fine Arts and the Opéra de Montréal, and not far from a park I want to check out.”

Louis did a quick search of luxury hotels in the area and smiled as he saw the Ritz Carlton was midway between the opera house and the art gallery. “Let’s stay at the Ritz Carlton. They’ve got a gallery or local artists – I can combine business and pleasure that way.”

“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll text you my travel arrangements and see you there.”

~~~

Lestat was in the lobby of the hotel when Louis arrived, readily identifiable by his glossy fair hair that caught the lights of the chandeliers above him.

“Hi there,” said Louis, walking over to meet him. They embraced as if they’d been parted for decades again, each rejoicing in the closeness of the other. After a kiss on each cheek, they parted slightly.

The lobby was buzzing with people gathering to go into dinner or out on the town and yet Lestat cut a lonely figure, sat on his own, watching the revolving doors for Louis’s arrival.

“Hey, you didn’t have to wait down here for me, you couldha just texted me your room number.”

“My room number?” Lestat looked panicky. “Mais, Louis – you implied you would arrange the accommodation.”

Thinking back on their conversation, Louis realised he hadn’t made it clear he’d just be booking for himself. He’d suggested the hotel and not stopped to consider that Lestat wouldn’t book his own room. “That’s fine, we’ll ask reception what’s available.”

There were no other rooms.

“You can share my suite – I think it’s got two beds,” said Louis, awkwardly. He still didn’t know exactly where they stood with each other.

There weren’t two beds. Just the one, albeit a king sized bed.

“It’s alright, Louis,” muttered Lestat, gesturing at the sofa. “There are plenty of pillows and there will be spare blankets. I can sleep in here- ”

“No!” protested Louis. “There’s no need … unless… well unless you’d rather not share with me…”

“Never!” exclaimed Lestat, before sighing and picking up his suitcase. “However, if it would make you uncomfortable, I can enquire about vacancies at another hotel.”

The look of desolation on Lestat’s face was unbearable. Shaking his head, Louis took the case off Lestat and put it down and then wrapped his arms around him. “I want to be close to you… that OK?”

“More than OK…” said Lestat, although the crooked smile indicated he was uncertain of Louis’s true feelings. “But you want to take it slow? Yes?”

“Yeah…” admitted Louis, unable to deny Lestat’s perceptive deduction. “For now.”

“Bien sûr. Je comprends.”

“Hey, it’s not you, hon… it’s just me, I need time.” After eight decades with Armand, sharing a bed, yet hardly ever an affectionate touch, he was still adjusting to the new reality. The fact that the slightest of touches from Lestat was sufficient to have his heart racing could be down to being starved of the kind of passionate affection that Lestat exuded. He felt the need to pace himself and not to binge on what he could tell was on offer if only he gave the word.

~~~ They decided to take a night time walk around the city on their first night, to determine which area had the best vibe for nocturnal inhabitants. Criminal elements were of no concern to them as they just provided additional feeding opportunities.

Lestat had already identified two main neighbourhoods that he was interested in – the Mile End and Le Plateau-Mont-Royal, both described as artistic communities, hubs for musicians and artists alike. As they wandered from one district to another, they identified the neighbourhoods that had a vibrant nightlife, with live music spilling out from bars and clubs. Seeing the multicultural, multiethnic nature of the communities and clear indications of a tolerant society had both of them feeling relaxed. They were also well fed, having found a belligerent visitor preaching that anyone waving a rainbow flag would be condemned to an eternity burning in hell.

Having scoped out the streets with properties for sale that appealed to Lestat the most, they ended up in Mount Royal Park, strolling along pathways between trees, their hands linked. For the longest while they walked in silence, just listening to the night sounds of birds settling down amongst occasional squabbles, a few honks from Canada geese as they escorted troops of golden goslings towards their roosts and the distant sound of traffic.

Every now and then, Lestat would brush his thumb across the pulse point in Louis’s wrist, as if tentatively requesting a deeper connection. Walking in step, Louis smiled. Focusing on their heart beats he could hear they were as in sync as their breathing. The connection was already being reforged.

“Wanna sit on that bench – the one by the lake?” he asked.

“I would like that very much,” replied Lestat, his voice catching slightly. Louis waited for Lestat to sit down first and then sat next to him. Close enough that their thighs were pressed together. He didn’t want to leave Lestat in any doubt as to how close he wanted to be to him.

Looking out over the water, which sparkled as the moonlight caught the ripples from water birds wading across slowly it seemed that the night stood still. Out of nowhere, a couple of bats skimmed low over the water, feeding on bugs of some sort. He could imagine Lestat strolling around the park on his own when he moved to Montreal. That thought left him unsettled. He didn’t like to think of Lestat on his own. In the early years of their relationship he’d told Louis that loneliness was his greatest fear.

He was about to ask if Lestat thought he’d be able to make friends in Canada when he noticed that Lestat was holding his breath. His brow was furrowed, as if there were a question on his mind that he dared not ask.

“What’s on your mind, Les?” Taking one of Lestat’s hands, he clasped it in his lap. “You can ask me anything.”

“Of course. I can ask, but you may choose not to answer – and that’s what troubles me. How I may react to your withholding of the answer.”

“I promise I’ll answer.”

“When you were with … him… did you walk in the parks in moonlight? Did you sit together on a bench …?”

Louis sighed. “At first. In Paris … before… before… when I first knew him… we’d take walks in the city… along the river… around Sacre Coeur… we’d sometimes sit on a bench and talk- ”

Lestat pulled his hand away. “I see – ”

“No you don’t,” said Louis, quickly reaching out to capture the hand pulled away from him. “You were there too … it was you I wished was with me, even then.”

“Vraiment?”

“Really. And then… after… afterwards. No not just after. Before, during and after – it were never anything like it had been with you. Our hearts were never aligned… even when I was mad as hell with you, I wanted you. I never stopped loving you.”

Lestat turned to look at Louis, a blood tear gathering on his lashes. “You loved me…”

“Never stopped. Still do. You once called it a cord that binds maker to fledgling – but that don’t explain what it is that pulls us together.”

“You’re right, mon cher,” muttered Lestat. “When … with Nicolas it seemed that the love we once had mutated into something darker when he became a vampire. He resented me… I assumed that you also resented me.”

“Only on account of what I believed you’d done,” explained Louis. “Soon as I found out the truth, there was nothing on earth that was gonna get in the way of me finding my way back to you.”

Louis hadn’t realised that he, too, was crying until Lestat leaned over and gently brushed the tears from his cheeks.

“Oh mon cher… so much time lost.”

“They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“That’s a tired cliché, Louis – I can think of several individuals for whom that is far from the truth.”

Louis chuckled. “Yeah, me too.”

They were suddenly disturbed by the clanging sound of a waste bin. They spun around, as one, to see a raccoon burrowing into a pile of litter that had spilt onto the ground.

“That reminds me of the raccoon that took up residence in our home on Rue Royale.”

“Yeah – how the hell did that get in the house in the first place?”

“I brought it to you to eat, but you were in no mood for any offerings from me.”

“Claudia shooed it out,” said Louis, thinking fondly of how she had cleared up the mess that had accumulated in their home during her absence. “And then ended up bringing in pigeons for me to eat and they just shit on everything. And a goat.”

“A goat?” Lestat frowned.

“Yeah… you two were really much more alike than either of you would ever admit.”

“Hmmmm… perhaps that is why we argued so much.”

“Yeah … but I always knew you loved her.”

Lestat bit his lip. “I suspect the feeling was never mutual…”

“Don’t kid yourself. It was the situation she despised… and she blamed you for that… but that was on both of us.” Louis pressed his lips together, recalling the circumstances when he’d pleaded with Lestat to take a wounded young girl, severely burnt on account of his actions, and make a vampire of her. Closing his eyes, he recalled the rows he’d had with Claudia when they’d been travelling around Europe. “I guess she hated and loved us both, in different ways and at different times.”

“As a daughter?” prompted Lestat, cautiously.

“Yeah. Our daughter.”

Resting his head on Lestat’s shoulder, Louis felt an arm slide around his shoulders, drawing him in closer. The scent of Lestat filled his nostrils. He smelt of belonging. It was like coming home after a prolonged period spent away from all that grounded you and made you feel at peace.

“Shall we go back to the hotel now?” he whispered, almost afraid of breaking the spell that encompassed them.

There was a moment of silence and then Lestat leaned over to press a kiss to the top of Louis’s head. “Yes.”

~~~ Neither of them spoke a word as they walked back to the Ritz Carlton. No words were needed. They moved through the streets side by side, hand in hand, in harmony with one another. In the elevator, they turned to face each other, eyes meeting and seeing nothing else but adoration. Entering their suite, Louis led Lestat to the bedroom, where they undressed each other slowly and with infinite care. Pausing before each button was unfastened, or zip eased down, ensuring that neither was moving too fast.

Small gasps of pleasure as fingertips caressed bare skin and sighs of delight as their bodies came together, from lip to hip … kisses were exchanged and became deeper as their mouths opened and breaths were shared.

It was Lestat who scooped Louis into his arms and carried him to the bed, settling him down gently on the thick eiderdown cover. They lay face to face, side by side, slowly fondling one another, reacquainting themselves with the curves of backs, buttocks, hips and thighs, while their hearts were closer than ever. Sliding his leg between Lestat’s thighs, Louis pulled him closer still, until their arousals came together, causing their hearts to beat faster.

They had not lain together since the night before the Mardi Gras Ball … and that thought made Louis’s heart ache. So much lay between them in the intervening decades and yet they were together again. Making love with their whole being, body, heart and soul reminded Louis that it had only ever been making love with Lestat. It had been sex with Jonah and Armand. Fucking with the strangers he picked up in bars. But with Lestat, it transcended the physical and became a spiritual experience.

Without needing to ask, they drank from each other’s throats as they came, letting the blood flow from one to the other, as other fluids were spilt between them.

A sensation of euphoria flooded Louis’s senses as he held Lestat close, seeing in his blown pupils and smile of ecstasy that he was sharing the very same experience.

It had taken almost a century and thousands of miles to come back to where they had started. As Lestat had told him on that altar… ‘I send my love to you and you send it back around to me.’ He’d been right about the circle that kept bringing them back to each other.

Later that night, as the sky was starting to lighten over the city of Montreal, they lay in each other’s arms, at peace with the world and with each other.

~~~

[educatedinyellow]

A gift for @surrenderdorothea for the #dontburnaloneexchange. <3

This song ("Movement," by hozier) always spoke to me of how Lestat sees Louis -- an irresistible moving force that ignites every kind of passion in him; quiet awe, violent joy, tender misery, regret and hope.

Wishing you a wonderful end to all the delicious anticipation & looking forward to seeing these two rewiring our brains once again in season 3!

And many thanks to @the-beautiful-unwell for hosting this gift exchange :)

[gigi-sinclair]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For @angstosaur ! Thanks for all you do for the fandom, and thanks to @the-beautiful-unwell for organising a fun exchange.

The request was for Louis and Lestat loving and caring for each other, AU or canon. Hope this fits the bill!