Someday. Louis has complicated thoughts on this too, spurred by the frenetic scraps of information that reach him. Daniel and Lestat, and all they do together. Louis, jealous.
And then: the extreme complication of being jealous of both of them at once.
Put aside now, letting amusement glow between them at Daniel's offered images, at the flirtation that follows.
I gotta fill the hours somehow, is mock-mournful. Otherwise it'd just be me in the dark, missing you.
An embellishment in return: Louis on the floor of the penthouse in Dubai, scattered books and newspapers bearing Daniel's words everywhere.
Can't help it if I gotta take drastic measures when their company ain't measuring up to yours.
Which is exaggerated but true. Lots of momentary diversions, none that compete. It's hard when the bar is Daniel Molloy, is Lestat de Lioncourt. Louis isn't bored yet, but the diversions thus far have been passing.
Of course, Louis kills them because they try to kill him first. But still.
Daniel and Lestat. They have fun, but there's a tension that runs through it. Lestat hates the book, but loves that it exists; he feels eviscerated by it, and at the same time, he knows that without it, Louis would still be trapped under Armand's glass bell. Becoming a celebrity, saying that he is the tragic, romantic villain of the book, has a strong flavor of reclaiming a slur.
Daniel doesn't begrudge him this. He doesn't begrudge him most things, even though he could. He spent two weeks of the interview, and then long months writing, as the only person left on earth who was speaking for Claudia. But Daniel isn't a great person, in the end. He's more interested in watching the shit Lestat does than he is interested in contriving some form of justice. Which is probably bad.
The flamboyant monster hasn't yet confronted him about Louis, in a specific way. It's coming, though. He's well aware. Enjoying the both of them, in different ways, before his head gets punched off.
'You're so busy,' he accuses with a laugh. 'Talk radio can't shut the fuck up about you.'
Talk radio being, of course, vampires.
'You have as many people falling in love with you from afar as you're pissing off. All these stagnant immortals having to care about something all of a sudden.'
Maybe he had been talking about himself but he was talking about all of them too. Vampires circling around the edges of the world, plotting a take over because they had nothing else to do.
Now they can all hate Louis. Daniel's gift to them. Louis' indulgence.
Some of 'em are just mad that they aren't bored anymore.
The older ones. The ones Louis knows he'll have to handle carefully, if he must handle them at all.
A thought cordoned off, away from Daniel. Louis gives him instead eye-rolling amusement, the squeeze of linked hands.
You tuning into them?
Which, like. Of course Daniel is. It's just invitation to talk about any part of what he's heard, anything that might be weighing on his mind.
As Louis notes: of course Daniel is. An unfiltered fire hose of vampire gossip and complaining and posturing, full of completely insane undead people who have no idea that he's eavesdropping. Even if a few suspect that the writer has been transformed (and a few do suspect it), a fledgling of his age shouldn't be able to hear as much as he does. Sneaky.
'There's been some talk in Hungarian about going after Lestat, but I can't tell how serious it is. People are wary of him, because they aren't sure how old he is, and there's this weird cycle that a lot of them get into, where they want to use the book as intel but don't trust it, or think it'd be gauche to acknowledge it, even when it's the thing they're mad about. It's funny.'
Perhaps Louis needs to stir the pot in Hungary. Not that Hungarian necessarily indicates location, but it's an acceptable starting point from which to draw attention.
Louis doesn't like it. Doesn't like attention paid to Lestat (who in fairness is cultivating a vampiric scandal all his own.) when it was Louis' choices that started them all into this track. More or less, anyway.
A bit of silence, the mental sense of tangling fingers. Of Louis, briefly gone away and then returned, attention warming as he fixes all of it back to Daniel.
It would be something to worry about if they could coordinate, but they can't. The younger ones squabble like alley cats and the older ones are waiting to see how long I'll live.
Shrewd assessments.
They do think it's gauche, what I did. Speaking to a mortal. They'd have thought you beneath me. Them. It's as much about that as it is about what you published.
Social faux pas, that's what the laws really govern.
A notion he's considered before, but is more and more relevant of late. He thinks about how shocked he was when he first tried to publish the interview— how immediate the stonewall was. No time for anyone to research and verify his identity or who he'd spoken to. Immediate. The kind of speed and thoroughness that suggests a level of omnipresent awareness that outstrips the fumbling stalkers of the Talamasca by miles.
Lost in thought for a minute.
He comes back—
'I mean, that makes sense, it would be weird for me to have published an interview with a sandwich when I was mortal.'
Swerving from the possibility of this or that coven, those who might have been quick to attempt to influence publishing. Who might present a more united front, yes, but Louis suspects there is little possibility of coordinating beyond their own chosen clan.
If he finds out, he might tell Daniel about it. A bridge to cross when the information presents itself.
Instead of belabor either point, Louis asks:
Where did you go?
Daniel had receded just a little bit away. Been a little less present. Returns and Louis leans into the sensation, drawing closer into the link between them.
How to explain. Wheels around in his head; Louis may be used to sensing this particular kind of mechanic to the way Daniel thinks, by now— vampire advancements make everything almost too fast, processing on a level like reading ten books at once. Easy to get distracted, though he's getting better at focusing and utilizing things appropriately.
'When I published my memoir, my usual place wouldn't take it. Until the interview, it was the only book they wouldn't put through. It was a subsidiary of a decent market pillar, but it's gone now. Like shell company gone, gone. I dunno. Could mean nothing. It's not like the memoir did very well, compared to everything else, and my regular place knew it wouldn't.'
That was the excuse, at least.
'What's the first thing you looked for in it, when you picked it up?'
Familiar, yes, but not quite used to. Pleased to be adjacent to the hum of the machinery, to feel the buzz of Daniel tracing ten trains of thought at once, of Daniel unraveling tangles of information down to an answer.
He draws in closer, drawing carefully nearer. Easy to expel, if Daniel gives he slightest indication he doesn't appreciate Louis' proximity.
Your memoir?
Thinking back, recalling the day in which he'd lifted Daniel's book from the stand. Armand's hand had been resting at the small of his back. The clerk had handed Louis the book back wrapped in brown paper. He'd waited to open it, choosing a moment alone, let his fingers trail down the page.
Louis lets Daniel have these impressions, while he considers—
The night we met.
Louis had touched his mind that night, yes. But it had been years. How did Daniel remember it? Remember them?
Proximity is welcomed, psychic hands tangled, leaning, like showing him the book he's reading. And due to it, before he even responds, there's a sense of— yeah, exactly.
Had Louis reached out, then? Had Daniel never noticed? But how could he, mortal, preoccupied. What a warm thought. Neither of the realized just how much they missed each other.
But what he means is,
'Right. Because you're a vampire. If I wrote about it, no one would believe me, except for people who know vampires are real. The place that published my memoir didn't ask for a single edit, by the way.'
You sure it's all because I'm a vampire, and not because I wanted to see if the handsome writer I met remembered me at all?
A different kind of ego at play. Flirtatious, inviting.
And a little debate before Louis lets Daniel feel it too, the memory of nervous energy as Louis had flipped through the pages. Anxious anticipation, wanting to find some sign of himself, of them, wanting it to be absent.
It had been. It it had felt like it had been, because Louis had read his own words and not recognized them. Had not quite found himself in the summation of Daniel's recounting of his exploits. Remembers—
The odd, empty feeling. Disappointment? (Armand had named it later: Does our boy's latest work disappoint?) Relief?
Not relief.
He had flipped to the front, begun to read from the beginning.
What are you implying about your memoir's publishers? diverts, a little tug of Daniel's attention back to his theorizing.
Daniel is getting better about accepting compliments over anything but writing, but he's not out of the woods. Like. Maybe he was moderately handsome then, if Louis is being generous. But Daniel looks very different now, and in turn, looks very different than his immortal peers because of it.
Just kinda weird. Something none of them will ever understand, that he gets to deal with. But all the same, he makes sure Louis can feel his affection, like sliding a hand over his chest, to companionably settle on his shoulder. He gets it. Nervous about being remembered. Even with their highly edited scraps, they were important to each other.
'Dunno, exactly.' And here, a shrug. 'Our book got totally blackballed outside of Talamasca. My memoir may have been vetted. Something is out there.'
Miles and miles away, feeling the impression of a touch, Louis closes his eyes. The ache of missing Daniel stirs in his head, rising like silt, coloring the connection between them without fully coalescing into words.
Alongside that, a pleased glow over Our book.
It is complicated, Daniel's choice to publish. Louis' last minute reversal, hasty burst of fire seeking to claw back his story, come to nothing.
They haven't talked about it. What can be said?
But even with all of this, Louis still likes the sound of our book. Likes the way it sounds in Daniel's mouth, in their heads.
And he likes this too, this shared unraveling. Louis considers, offers, I can imagine there are those of us old enough to have gotten a hand into publishing. I don't know why they'd have paid attention to your memoir though.
Daniel hadn't remembered to write down the truth of San Francisco. Louis and Armand had made no claims, no shouts out into the many.
How will you find out for certain? About the memoir?
Daniel imagines reaching out, cradling Louis' face in his hand, stroking his cheek with his thumb. He wonders how much of it comes out. He loves getting to feel all of this, the way he and Louis can tangle together even from afar, and he appreciates — in a practical way, which might be funny, given everything — getting to learn and practice.
Complicated, but good. Their book. Daniel was always going to publish it, even if he had to print copies and hand them out. The craziest thing he's ever done wasn't about to become lost media. Even if he was still going to just die of Parkinson's, he'd have done it.
Louis' answer, meanwhile, sounds charmingly innocent to Daniel. Don't know why they'd have paid attention, but even Talamasca, shoddily put together stalkers as they are, knew more about the truth of what happened that week. The idea that there aren't other vampires, who are better funded, fueled by superpowers, and all that shit, that knew, is pretty wild in that context.
But—
'I won't, probably. I've got other stuff going on right now. But I want you to be careful, yeah?'
A tease of impression. Not enough, but welcomed all the same.
Uncertain when he will have Daniel again, be able to demand his presence and attention. Louis is investigating, but he has no real illusions about chasing down missing pieces of his memory being enough to hold interest. Daniel says other stuff and a question forms in Louis' mind, set aside so Louis can ask:
Of anything in particular? is a little teasing, a little curious.
Louis is well aware of the things he should be careful of. And maybe that's all it is.
Louis already knows about other stuff. Most of the other stuff, anyway. Mostly it's Lestat's tour, and some of it's writing little things he'd let fall by the wayside during the tail end of his mortal life. The rest, cloudy-eyed sacrifices left in his hotel rooms, a hundred dead roses preserved in glass, the severed head of the pundit who suggested he was dying of AIDS— that's his business. Louis doesn't need to know.
'Anything you're not sure about.'
Daniel doesn't know, exactly, what to look for. It's too vague, and it's too big for him to go after. He'll need a lot more time and perspective.
It's too big. A long list. Seventy-seven years of uncertainties, wondering over the possibility of absences.
Ambitious, even for Daniel.
The connection between them warms, tender affection kindling in the wake of these words. A wistful inclination towards touch, where Louis might put himself if given opportunity. (Into Daniel's lap, weighing him down, all the easier to kiss.) Can't say any of the soft things that come to mind, so Louis sends this.
Says instead, That'll eat up some time.
And then, lower, questions, When can I see you again?
A very mortal turn of phrase, a little funny for it's incongruity. They are not a pair of new-met humans enamored in the wake of a first meeting. They are something else entirely.
Louis asks still. Daniel can always tell him no. Daniel is always going to be busy, restless, chasing. The conversations around what they make of that, what they will be to each other and where—
Faith that Louis will notice things, if Daniel nags him enough, and that he won't do anything too reckless. Sort of reckless, sure, but he has to believe (because he has no other choice) that if Louis saw something really and truly weird, a situational equivalent of that sign posted in underwater caves with the grim reaper on it, he'd back off.
And then—
'Anytime you want,' is warm, with the impression of a fond laugh. 'Except noon in a cafe, I guess. But you have the schedule.'
Lestat's schedule, he means. It's up to Louis decide if he wants to come meet up, intersect with the tour, or if he'd like Daniel to skim off at some point during a break. Of course, Daniel doesn't expect him to swan in here and hold his hand in front of Louis' maker — he expects Louis to keep using Daniel as a buffer for a while and eventually go back to him, frankly — but he could always quietly book a room somewhere down the street, and they could meet up. Go on evening cocktail dates. Pretend to be normal, or. Well. As normal as a pair of people who look like a hired caretaker and his patient can seem.
The laptop clicks closed, balanced over his thighs.
Louis had admitted freely, I miss him, when Daniel had invoked Lestat. And it is true still. Louis misses him. He has the tour schedule. It has been discussed, whether or not Louis would attend a show.
It had been complicated then. It was complicated now.
The impression of tangling fingers, Louis' weight leaning in against Daniel. Chin hooked onto his shoulder. Telegraphed sensations of where Louis would like to be, how close he would like to be.
I could come to you, Louis murmurs. You have a few free days towards the end of the month, don't you?
If he lets himself, Daniel could easily fall into the trap of being starved for touch and affection. Louis makes it all so tempting, in person and through the shocking intimacy of telepathy. Daniel is of course plenty affectionate, but he does worry about being clingy and needy and letting his various insecurities dictate his behavior. Tough, though, when Louis makes him think of things like leaning against each other, wrapped up, swaying and laughing.
He really does love him. Almost embarrassing, how much.
'I do. Got your eye on a hotel somewhere that you like?'
Trying very hard not to immediately think of what Louis has so far and prioritize that over daydreaming about holding his hand. A proverbial gleam in his eye. Oooo, things he can dig into.
Lestat's people have arranged his tour through mostly cities, all the better for hunting. Maybe some of these cities aren't going to afford Louis the kind of luxury he is most accustomed to, but there will be options.
And there will be Daniel.
Let me make the arrangements.
Because Louis likes that; doing for the people he is most fond of. No clearer expression of his love than the way he seeks to provide, even if it's only a hotel room.
You think on which bad movie you're gonna take me to see.
Treading across things said in Dubai, half-forgotten, only recently recovered, feels dangerous. But Louis likes this memory, likes how it felt when Daniel was offering him that company when they still felt near to strangers.
'Alright,' is a warm laugh. Louis, precise in all things; Daniel has always noticed, but it's not until recently that he's really started to pay closer attention and consider it personally. The items of clothing Louis picks to wear when they spend time together, the places he chooses. Daniel's happy with anything, but it's clearly something that matters to Louis, so he wants to appreciate it.
And, maybe, try to reciprocate. Though he thinks he sucks at it. Maybe he'll try to find a classier post card. More stylish shoes?
Yes, Daniel would be happy with anything. Louis is aware.
It's not showing off, the quiet flex of wealth inherent in so much of what Louis does. He cares deeply for Daniel. He would like to give him the best of everything.
This is how it has always been for Louis. Affection telegraphed in the way luxury is laid out for them, the best of what they might enjoy caught and presented to them.
Admittedly, Columbus, Ohio, presents different options. Still, the details appear promptly in Daniel's inbox from Louis' personal email. A penthouse suite, staff instructed to expect Daniel's arrival. A coffin already arranged, discretion bought and paid for.
A brief message: Looking forward to seeing you.
Understatement. (Difficult to encompass the depth of feeling involved.)
There is every chance Daniel arrives first. The sweet-faced boy behind the counter is effusive in his welcome, and a handful of attendants appear in a rush to take his bags, offer to fetch anything he might want, is there anything the mini bar should be stocked with...?
He is advised: Mr. du Lac will be arriving within the hour. But here's a parcel waiting for Daniel, Mr. du Lac hopes it will keep Daniel entertained.
A white box on the coffee table contains a scuffed laptop, machine and its contents given over to Daniel's inspection. (The only sign of Rachida's presence, the diligence of her attention to every detail of Louis' intentions.) Louis' elegant handwriting marks out Daniel's name on a slip of paper, making the recipient of the offering clear.
The idea of love languages is bogus, and was invented by a freakish pastor in a desperate attempt to assure worthless right-wing men that their shitty habits are justified and loving— but let's pretend. What is Daniel's? He's wondered this about himself before. The conclusion he keeps coming to is he's just a shit guy who not even a self-help relationship book can diagnose, because all the answers he coughs up are 'nagging' and 'procurement of details', and like, who gives a fuck.
Louis is a provider, and he's attentive, and generous. Daniel doesn't think there's a single thing he could get him, especially not in Ohio.
He picks up a postcard. It has an unimpressive photo of the downtown Columbus 'skyline', and in big, loopy lettering, says, At Least It's Not Cleveland!, and in turn, it is at least not the other postcard Daniel considered, which was just a vintage photo of a naked woman. Lestat and every member of the touring band has autographed the back of it. Daniel sets it on the coffee table while he investigates the box, the box, what's in the box, oooo.
Is the power source fucked? Does it turn on, or is Daniel going to have to send it to a guy he knows? He's still digging through things when Louis arrives, and—?
The power source is functional, but the hinges are holding on by a thread, and the screen is cracked. But it powers on, and the screen is functional, if annoying, to peer at. Louis disabled the password, but the contents have been minimally combed through.
Louis' suitcase arrives before he does, delivered into the room by way of a fidgety young man Daniel may or may not recognize. His greeting is very polite, and very brief; he slips out of any attempts to engage in conversation, vanishing before the sound of a keycard activating the lock.
Revealing the reason for this hasty departure: Louis.
Soft gray sweatpants, immaculate sneakers, sunglasses hooked into the low v of his t-shirt, delicate fabric made more so by the heavy leather of his jacket. Expression warming as the door closes, as his gaze settles on Daniel.
"Hey," in greeting, crossing the room. "What have you made of it?"
As if they are only picking up conversation recently lapsed.
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Someday. Louis has complicated thoughts on this too, spurred by the frenetic scraps of information that reach him. Daniel and Lestat, and all they do together. Louis, jealous.
And then: the extreme complication of being jealous of both of them at once.
Put aside now, letting amusement glow between them at Daniel's offered images, at the flirtation that follows.
I gotta fill the hours somehow, is mock-mournful. Otherwise it'd just be me in the dark, missing you.
An embellishment in return: Louis on the floor of the penthouse in Dubai, scattered books and newspapers bearing Daniel's words everywhere.
Can't help it if I gotta take drastic measures when their company ain't measuring up to yours.
Which is exaggerated but true. Lots of momentary diversions, none that compete. It's hard when the bar is Daniel Molloy, is Lestat de Lioncourt. Louis isn't bored yet, but the diversions thus far have been passing.
Of course, Louis kills them because they try to kill him first. But still.
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Daniel doesn't begrudge him this. He doesn't begrudge him most things, even though he could. He spent two weeks of the interview, and then long months writing, as the only person left on earth who was speaking for Claudia. But Daniel isn't a great person, in the end. He's more interested in watching the shit Lestat does than he is interested in contriving some form of justice. Which is probably bad.
The flamboyant monster hasn't yet confronted him about Louis, in a specific way. It's coming, though. He's well aware. Enjoying the both of them, in different ways, before his head gets punched off.
'You're so busy,' he accuses with a laugh. 'Talk radio can't shut the fuck up about you.'
Talk radio being, of course, vampires.
'You have as many people falling in love with you from afar as you're pissing off. All these stagnant immortals having to care about something all of a sudden.'
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An echo. Louis has said this before.
Maybe he had been talking about himself but he was talking about all of them too. Vampires circling around the edges of the world, plotting a take over because they had nothing else to do.
Now they can all hate Louis. Daniel's gift to them. Louis' indulgence.
Some of 'em are just mad that they aren't bored anymore.
The older ones. The ones Louis knows he'll have to handle carefully, if he must handle them at all.
A thought cordoned off, away from Daniel. Louis gives him instead eye-rolling amusement, the squeeze of linked hands.
You tuning into them?
Which, like. Of course Daniel is. It's just invitation to talk about any part of what he's heard, anything that might be weighing on his mind.
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As Louis notes: of course Daniel is. An unfiltered fire hose of vampire gossip and complaining and posturing, full of completely insane undead people who have no idea that he's eavesdropping. Even if a few suspect that the writer has been transformed (and a few do suspect it), a fledgling of his age shouldn't be able to hear as much as he does. Sneaky.
'There's been some talk in Hungarian about going after Lestat, but I can't tell how serious it is. People are wary of him, because they aren't sure how old he is, and there's this weird cycle that a lot of them get into, where they want to use the book as intel but don't trust it, or think it'd be gauche to acknowledge it, even when it's the thing they're mad about. It's funny.'
Vampires are weird.
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Perhaps Louis needs to stir the pot in Hungary. Not that Hungarian necessarily indicates location, but it's an acceptable starting point from which to draw attention.
Louis doesn't like it. Doesn't like attention paid to Lestat (who in fairness is cultivating a vampiric scandal all his own.) when it was Louis' choices that started them all into this track. More or less, anyway.
A bit of silence, the mental sense of tangling fingers. Of Louis, briefly gone away and then returned, attention warming as he fixes all of it back to Daniel.
It would be something to worry about if they could coordinate, but they can't. The younger ones squabble like alley cats and the older ones are waiting to see how long I'll live.
Shrewd assessments.
They do think it's gauche, what I did. Speaking to a mortal. They'd have thought you beneath me. Them. It's as much about that as it is about what you published.
Social faux pas, that's what the laws really govern.
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A notion he's considered before, but is more and more relevant of late. He thinks about how shocked he was when he first tried to publish the interview— how immediate the stonewall was. No time for anyone to research and verify his identity or who he'd spoken to. Immediate. The kind of speed and thoroughness that suggests a level of omnipresent awareness that outstrips the fumbling stalkers of the Talamasca by miles.
Lost in thought for a minute.
He comes back—
'I mean, that makes sense, it would be weird for me to have published an interview with a sandwich when I was mortal.'
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Swerving from the possibility of this or that coven, those who might have been quick to attempt to influence publishing. Who might present a more united front, yes, but Louis suspects there is little possibility of coordinating beyond their own chosen clan.
If he finds out, he might tell Daniel about it. A bridge to cross when the information presents itself.
Instead of belabor either point, Louis asks:
Where did you go?
Daniel had receded just a little bit away. Been a little less present. Returns and Louis leans into the sensation, drawing closer into the link between them.
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How to explain. Wheels around in his head; Louis may be used to sensing this particular kind of mechanic to the way Daniel thinks, by now— vampire advancements make everything almost too fast, processing on a level like reading ten books at once. Easy to get distracted, though he's getting better at focusing and utilizing things appropriately.
'When I published my memoir, my usual place wouldn't take it. Until the interview, it was the only book they wouldn't put through. It was a subsidiary of a decent market pillar, but it's gone now. Like shell company gone, gone. I dunno. Could mean nothing. It's not like the memoir did very well, compared to everything else, and my regular place knew it wouldn't.'
That was the excuse, at least.
'What's the first thing you looked for in it, when you picked it up?'
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He draws in closer, drawing carefully nearer. Easy to expel, if Daniel gives he slightest indication he doesn't appreciate Louis' proximity.
Your memoir?
Thinking back, recalling the day in which he'd lifted Daniel's book from the stand. Armand's hand had been resting at the small of his back. The clerk had handed Louis the book back wrapped in brown paper. He'd waited to open it, choosing a moment alone, let his fingers trail down the page.
Louis lets Daniel have these impressions, while he considers—
The night we met.
Louis had touched his mind that night, yes. But it had been years. How did Daniel remember it? Remember them?
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Had Louis reached out, then? Had Daniel never noticed? But how could he, mortal, preoccupied. What a warm thought. Neither of the realized just how much they missed each other.
But what he means is,
'Right. Because you're a vampire. If I wrote about it, no one would believe me, except for people who know vampires are real. The place that published my memoir didn't ask for a single edit, by the way.'
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You sure it's all because I'm a vampire, and not because I wanted to see if the handsome writer I met remembered me at all?
A different kind of ego at play. Flirtatious, inviting.
And a little debate before Louis lets Daniel feel it too, the memory of nervous energy as Louis had flipped through the pages. Anxious anticipation, wanting to find some sign of himself, of them, wanting it to be absent.
It had been. It it had felt like it had been, because Louis had read his own words and not recognized them. Had not quite found himself in the summation of Daniel's recounting of his exploits. Remembers—
The odd, empty feeling. Disappointment? (Armand had named it later: Does our boy's latest work disappoint?) Relief?
Not relief.
He had flipped to the front, begun to read from the beginning.
What are you implying about your memoir's publishers? diverts, a little tug of Daniel's attention back to his theorizing.
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Daniel is getting better about accepting compliments over anything but writing, but he's not out of the woods. Like. Maybe he was moderately handsome then, if Louis is being generous. But Daniel looks very different now, and in turn, looks very different than his immortal peers because of it.
Just kinda weird. Something none of them will ever understand, that he gets to deal with. But all the same, he makes sure Louis can feel his affection, like sliding a hand over his chest, to companionably settle on his shoulder. He gets it. Nervous about being remembered. Even with their highly edited scraps, they were important to each other.
'Dunno, exactly.' And here, a shrug. 'Our book got totally blackballed outside of Talamasca. My memoir may have been vetted. Something is out there.'
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Alongside that, a pleased glow over Our book.
It is complicated, Daniel's choice to publish. Louis' last minute reversal, hasty burst of fire seeking to claw back his story, come to nothing.
They haven't talked about it. What can be said?
But even with all of this, Louis still likes the sound of our book. Likes the way it sounds in Daniel's mouth, in their heads.
And he likes this too, this shared unraveling. Louis considers, offers, I can imagine there are those of us old enough to have gotten a hand into publishing. I don't know why they'd have paid attention to your memoir though.
Daniel hadn't remembered to write down the truth of San Francisco. Louis and Armand had made no claims, no shouts out into the many.
How will you find out for certain? About the memoir?
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Complicated, but good. Their book. Daniel was always going to publish it, even if he had to print copies and hand them out. The craziest thing he's ever done wasn't about to become lost media. Even if he was still going to just die of Parkinson's, he'd have done it.
Louis' answer, meanwhile, sounds charmingly innocent to Daniel. Don't know why they'd have paid attention, but even Talamasca, shoddily put together stalkers as they are, knew more about the truth of what happened that week. The idea that there aren't other vampires, who are better funded, fueled by superpowers, and all that shit, that knew, is pretty wild in that context.
But—
'I won't, probably. I've got other stuff going on right now. But I want you to be careful, yeah?'
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Uncertain when he will have Daniel again, be able to demand his presence and attention. Louis is investigating, but he has no real illusions about chasing down missing pieces of his memory being enough to hold interest. Daniel says other stuff and a question forms in Louis' mind, set aside so Louis can ask:
Of anything in particular? is a little teasing, a little curious.
Louis is well aware of the things he should be careful of. And maybe that's all it is.
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'Anything you're not sure about.'
Daniel doesn't know, exactly, what to look for. It's too vague, and it's too big for him to go after. He'll need a lot more time and perspective.
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Ambitious, even for Daniel.
The connection between them warms, tender affection kindling in the wake of these words. A wistful inclination towards touch, where Louis might put himself if given opportunity. (Into Daniel's lap, weighing him down, all the easier to kiss.) Can't say any of the soft things that come to mind, so Louis sends this.
Says instead, That'll eat up some time.
And then, lower, questions, When can I see you again?
A very mortal turn of phrase, a little funny for it's incongruity. They are not a pair of new-met humans enamored in the wake of a first meeting. They are something else entirely.
Louis asks still. Daniel can always tell him no. Daniel is always going to be busy, restless, chasing. The conversations around what they make of that, what they will be to each other and where—
Not yet.
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Faith that Louis will notice things, if Daniel nags him enough, and that he won't do anything too reckless. Sort of reckless, sure, but he has to believe (because he has no other choice) that if Louis saw something really and truly weird, a situational equivalent of that sign posted in underwater caves with the grim reaper on it, he'd back off.
And then—
'Anytime you want,' is warm, with the impression of a fond laugh. 'Except noon in a cafe, I guess. But you have the schedule.'
Lestat's schedule, he means. It's up to Louis decide if he wants to come meet up, intersect with the tour, or if he'd like Daniel to skim off at some point during a break. Of course, Daniel doesn't expect him to swan in here and hold his hand in front of Louis' maker — he expects Louis to keep using Daniel as a buffer for a while and eventually go back to him, frankly — but he could always quietly book a room somewhere down the street, and they could meet up. Go on evening cocktail dates. Pretend to be normal, or. Well. As normal as a pair of people who look like a hired caretaker and his patient can seem.
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The laptop clicks closed, balanced over his thighs.
Louis had admitted freely, I miss him, when Daniel had invoked Lestat. And it is true still. Louis misses him. He has the tour schedule. It has been discussed, whether or not Louis would attend a show.
It had been complicated then. It was complicated now.
The impression of tangling fingers, Louis' weight leaning in against Daniel. Chin hooked onto his shoulder. Telegraphed sensations of where Louis would like to be, how close he would like to be.
I could come to you, Louis murmurs. You have a few free days towards the end of the month, don't you?
Free on the schedule, but maybe not so free.
I'll bring what I have so far for you to look at.
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He really does love him. Almost embarrassing, how much.
'I do. Got your eye on a hotel somewhere that you like?'
Trying very hard not to immediately think of what Louis has so far and prioritize that over daydreaming about holding his hand. A proverbial gleam in his eye. Oooo, things he can dig into.
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Lestat's people have arranged his tour through mostly cities, all the better for hunting. Maybe some of these cities aren't going to afford Louis the kind of luxury he is most accustomed to, but there will be options.
And there will be Daniel.
Let me make the arrangements.
Because Louis likes that; doing for the people he is most fond of. No clearer expression of his love than the way he seeks to provide, even if it's only a hotel room.
You think on which bad movie you're gonna take me to see.
Treading across things said in Dubai, half-forgotten, only recently recovered, feels dangerous. But Louis likes this memory, likes how it felt when Daniel was offering him that company when they still felt near to strangers.
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And, maybe, try to reciprocate. Though he thinks he sucks at it. Maybe he'll try to find a classier post card. More stylish shoes?
He has no idea.
Smash-cut to:
Somewhere?
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It's not showing off, the quiet flex of wealth inherent in so much of what Louis does. He cares deeply for Daniel. He would like to give him the best of everything.
This is how it has always been for Louis. Affection telegraphed in the way luxury is laid out for them, the best of what they might enjoy caught and presented to them.
Admittedly, Columbus, Ohio, presents different options. Still, the details appear promptly in Daniel's inbox from Louis' personal email. A penthouse suite, staff instructed to expect Daniel's arrival. A coffin already arranged, discretion bought and paid for.
A brief message: Looking forward to seeing you.
Understatement. (Difficult to encompass the depth of feeling involved.)
There is every chance Daniel arrives first. The sweet-faced boy behind the counter is effusive in his welcome, and a handful of attendants appear in a rush to take his bags, offer to fetch anything he might want, is there anything the mini bar should be stocked with...?
He is advised: Mr. du Lac will be arriving within the hour. But here's a parcel waiting for Daniel, Mr. du Lac hopes it will keep Daniel entertained.
A white box on the coffee table contains a scuffed laptop, machine and its contents given over to Daniel's inspection. (The only sign of Rachida's presence, the diligence of her attention to every detail of Louis' intentions.) Louis' elegant handwriting marks out Daniel's name on a slip of paper, making the recipient of the offering clear.
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Louis is a provider, and he's attentive, and generous. Daniel doesn't think there's a single thing he could get him, especially not in Ohio.
He picks up a postcard. It has an unimpressive photo of the downtown Columbus 'skyline', and in big, loopy lettering, says, At Least It's Not Cleveland!, and in turn, it is at least not the other postcard Daniel considered, which was just a vintage photo of a naked woman. Lestat and every member of the touring band has autographed the back of it. Daniel sets it on the coffee table while he investigates the box, the box, what's in the box, oooo.
Is the power source fucked? Does it turn on, or is Daniel going to have to send it to a guy he knows? He's still digging through things when Louis arrives, and—?
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Louis' suitcase arrives before he does, delivered into the room by way of a fidgety young man Daniel may or may not recognize. His greeting is very polite, and very brief; he slips out of any attempts to engage in conversation, vanishing before the sound of a keycard activating the lock.
Revealing the reason for this hasty departure: Louis.
Soft gray sweatpants, immaculate sneakers, sunglasses hooked into the low v of his t-shirt, delicate fabric made more so by the heavy leather of his jacket. Expression warming as the door closes, as his gaze settles on Daniel.
"Hey," in greeting, crossing the room. "What have you made of it?"
As if they are only picking up conversation recently lapsed.
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