Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Feb 10, 2007 16:19:58 GMT 1
Mon dieu, it was far against my better judgment. In fact, it was so far beyond it that the moment I did it, I instantly regretted it. I complained the entire way there, reasoning with myself and attempting to make some rhyme or reason of the situation. And by the time I got there, I hesitated egregiously. I began to take a step inside, but my steps faltered and I took three steps back. But the hustle and bustle was enough to make my mind spin, and so once more, I pushed forward.
Why so many people came here, it was beyond me. I did not understand the appeal. Of course I knew exactly why I had once lost myself here, but that did not mean that I understood its importance in a modern context. In fact, I remained more perplexed than ever.
Although, now I can admit this, looking back in retrospect, the theatre lobby was quite exquisite in its little nuances and intricacies. I was in awe at the architecture, if nothing else. And so, once I got inside, I did not get very far for a long time. Minutes, maybe? It could not have been longer than that. At any rate, I digress. I was looking at the molding on the wall, the mortals shoving through for the show, more for the box office, when I realized that I was a fool.
No matter what I did, it would probably prompt a complaint. “Here, Lestat. Two tickets to…Le Nozze de Figaro. Hope you like it.” Of course he wouldn’t like it. He didn’t have a problem with The Marriage of Figaro. It was the fact that it was I who had bought them without his “permission” that he would have a problem with. What if he had plans? What if he would rather…oh dieu, I don’t know…frolic through a field of daisies and butterflies that night?
Non, I finally told myself, and I actually think that my stature grew an inch. I had to remain steadfast and confident. If I thought it was a good idea, Lestat would be forced to believe it, too. Oui, that was what I was going to do. I was going to convince him through feigned arrogance that I was, in fact, brilliant and so are these tickets. Why? Because I’m really, really nice.
On second thought, Lestat was arrogant enough. And a musical bearing his name could not be too bad. My lips pursed as I considered this other option. It hadn’t exactly been a subtle hint. “Louis, let’s go to New York City. It’s been years since we’ve been to New York.” I could almost sense his inner monologue. And it just so happens that there’s a musical going on right now called Lestat, which of course, I want to see. Because let’s face it. I’m beautiful and talented and amazing, and it’s about time the world recognized it today and made a movie or a musical or a sitcom about me that doesn’t involve Stuart Townsend. I mean, really, I’m incredibly gorgeous. Who doesn’t love me? I love me, even. If I were anyone else, I would want me. And I….
Perhaps I’ve taken it a bit too far. However, I knew with utter confidence now that Lestat, did in fact, want to see Lestat: the musical. I bought the tickets. A few girls were standing in the theatre lobby, who glanced me over as if trying to assess who I was. As though I looked immensely familiar. Well, guess what ladies, I’m in the show. But it’s not me.
I paid for the tickets quickly.
By the time they were in my hand, I was feeling a little ruffled…a little exhausted. Why, I couldn’t be sure. My mind was in a frenzy, but I returned to the hotel swiftly. Lestat was probably still in bed. Correction: Lestat was probably lounging in the all-too-expensive hotel suite he purchased, just because he can and he wanted nothing more than the best for himself.
Returning to the room itself, I placed the tickets in my back pocket; and without even notice of whether or not Lestat was asleep or awake, or where he was, I declared, “Get up and get dressed. We have an hour, and then I have something planned for you.” I went into the bathroom and stripped, flipping on the showerhead. I had not had a chance to shower, as I had wanted to set the plans as quickly as possible. And to be entirely honest, the city smell on me was relatively offensive.
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Feb 12, 2007 7:21:42 GMT 1
In a manner which for the briefest of moments was reminiscent of my sloppy youth in Auvergne, I woke up without the faintest clue where the hell I was. Completely tangled in crisp deep red sheets (the hotel provided white sheets but I insisted them changed for obvious reasons. No reason for the maid to wonder what sort of satanic ritual was performed in our bed), with an unfamiliar lamp leaking a small glow down the bedside table and a excessively busy hum (live in the city long enough and I bet you can sing it by heart) coming from the partly opened bedroom window, I was completely disoriented (much like you must have trying to disentangle that sentence. And now bow to the Prince of Run-on Sentences). It took only a moment for my mind to catch up with my surroundings and remember our little trip last night that ended us up here in New York City. Us…by “us” apparently I mean “me” as the spot beside me was completely empty of Louis. Well…perhaps not completely, his musty smell which reminded me of new books still lingered on the pillow and the slight dip in the bed which resembled his form still remained.
But I’m rambling.
I got up and went to the window, opening it wider and enjoying the refreshing breeze that played with my hair. Our room was near Time Square so we had a pretty damn nice view of the life outside. Lights so bright they turned night into merely an hour on the clock colored the streets and I hungered to be out in the heart of it all. Louis was probably out hunting anyway, I’m sure my presence wouldn’t be missed for a while. Then again…it was always a bad idea for either of us to get separated too far apart in this nightmare for one vampire with the attention span of a fruit fly in a blender and the other with such wandering feet it’s a miracle he makes it home before dawn every night.
And so I set my mind on waiting until Louis got back before making any decisions. I slipped on some nice black pants and tried to figure how to pass the time without Louis to entertain me. I called the desk and told them to bring up a bottle of their most expensive wine. I took a shower and used up all the shampoo in the pathetic miniature bottles. The bellboy came with the wine and I had a little drink before getting dressed (little drink of the bellboy, that is, not the wine). I then called home and left a message on our answering machine telling Louis that he takes too damn long hunting and can we please change the message because I wasn’t prepared when you hit the record button and you caught me mid-laugh and it sounds positively dreadful.
Alright. Now I was bored. So I laid down on the couch and stared at the bottle of wine, imagining if it would be a good wine or bad wine, bitter wine or sweet wine, soft wine or hard wine, and in the end I couldn’t really give a damn what type of wine it was. It was then that Louis finally burst through the doors and began ordering me around as though he had been here for hours and we had just been in the middle of some conversation.
“Get up and get dressed. We have an hour, and then I have something planned for you.” And then he left into the bathroom.
Number one, who the devil did he think he was, running off for well nearly an hour and then coming back and throwing demands? Number two…planned?
“I’m one step ahead of you,” I said as I sat up and followed him into the bathroom. For all those who don’t know, Louis is extremely quick at undressing and by time I got to the bathroom doorway his clothes has already puddled at his feet. I couldn’t help giving him a small looking over before addressing him again. Mon dieu, I’ve come to the conclusion that if he stopped being so damn beautiful all the time I would be able to get a lot more done. Honestly, sometimes when I’m looking at myself in the mirror I even find my eyes flicker over to his face behind me. Pathetic? I think so.
“What do you mean, planned?” I continued, focusing my eyes on his face. “When did we say we had something planned for today? I don’t remember this conversation. I have certain things I would like to get done while we are here as well, you know. Well? What is this important thing you have planned for us to do?”
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Feb 12, 2007 20:52:17 GMT 1
For those of you who don't know, anytime Lestat happens to walk in on me in a state of undress, he takes a moment, stops, and looks at me. I'm not even sure he's aware that I know he does this, but in all actuality, he's rather obvious about it. It is my opinion that I should conduct all business with him while in the nude, because I would get much further. I have essentially been with Lestat for over 200 years. At the start, I never let him see me undressed. In 1791, it wasn't exactly acceptable to be nude in front of another man.
After Lestat and I were reunited in 1985, I began to catch him sneaking glances at me at various stages of undress. Or, he would find reasons to barge in on me when I was in the shower. But, eventually, he lost hairbrushes to fetch, and I lost interest in jumping to cover myself. Finally, around 1994, I stopped caring entirely and made myself get used to the fact that this was going to be a nightly occurence. Between you and me, I think that's when Lestat stopped being so interested in intruding into my showers. He only stormed in when he had something to complain about. In retrospect, I think he liked the sight of my struggle to conceal myself better than he actually liked the sight of me naked, but that didn't stop him from taking a moment, every time, to take a look. I always found that amusing. It wasn't like things were going to change. They hadn't in nearly 216 years. I doubted the would from one night to the next.
This night was no different. When I could feel the frustration permeating the air, I knew that Lestat was awake. And I could only assume that he was not very happy about it. When he entered the bathroom, there was the inevitable pause as he looked me over, then he verbally began swinging, as the term goes. Most of the time, I tune him out when he goes on these rampages. It's easier just to not pay attention and only let a few key words gt through. That way, he's happy, I'm happy, and he gets to hear himself talk for minutes straight at a time. Usually, however, I attempt to seem interested. I engage my face and all other facilities and attempt to give Lestat the impression that I actually care what he's saying. Usually, Lestat talks until he's blue in the face but then sees me, thinks I'm pretty, and snogs the unliving moonlight out of me. It's quite amusing, really. "Blah, blah, blah, blah, mfmgnm." Which, in case you were wondering, is precisely what Lestat sounds like when he kisses someone and moans.
But this night, I was especially disinterested and I had no intention whatsoever to hide the fact. I had a plan, I was proud of myself, and the plan was going to be executed without any questions asked. I had gone all the way to 45th street, ON MY OWN, braving Times Square. For a vampire who is not very fond of crowds, that isn't exaclty a small feat.
I stepped into the shower as he joined me in the bathroom, and instead of noticing his words, I noticed his pants. He had dressed up to sit in an empty room. He had been bored. A lot of times, without even realizing he does it, when Lestat is bored, he'll play dress-up with himself. I'll come home and he will be sitting there in all of his ruffles and finery, and when I ask where he's going, he'll respond with a "nowhere." I turned my attention away once more. This time, from his trousers and to the shampoo I was pouring into my hand. Attempting to pour would rather be the operative word. There was no shampoo left. Mon dieu, we'd been here a night and Lestat had already used all of the damned shampoo.
I sighed and gave in, using the soap instead. Lestat was still talking. "Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Blah." By the time I finally heard silence, my hair was clean, and I worked on making my body the same way. Oh, I was wrong. He hadn't been done. "Blah, blah, blah..." I was startled when my thoughts were greeted with silence. I stepped out of the shower and slipped a towel around my waist.
Quick, Louis, recap what he said. Blah, blah - NON! He did not actually say "blah." He said words. Okay, he's not happy. Why? I ordered him around and made plans without him. There, good enough.
I spoke. "Lestat, would you prefer that we remain indoors all evening? You should be happy that I decided to go out and make plans with you. Otherwise, I would wish to spend the evening reading Dickens. Now what kind of a night would that be, hm? You would probably..." Ah, a wine bottle. He'd fed. Well, the old tricks never fail. "Well," I continued, "wine tasting can only fill up so much of your preternatural life."
Quick, Louis, compliment him! I stepped nearer, though the water from my hair slipped down my back. I allowed a damp finger to trace the outline of his beautiful and set lips. "Besides, look at how ravishing you are tonight. Look at your hair...c'est parfait!...and your choice of clothing. Mon dieu, you're beautiful, Lestat, and I want the world to see me on your arm."
I had not been lying. Lestat did look exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was seeing him outside of New Orleans. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was ruffled, and his cheeks were flushing from his feed. Or perhaps he really was just that beautiful. I let my lip forward in a pleading pout, though my lips creased in a tiny smile.
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Mar 4, 2007 20:16:41 GMT 1
Louis got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his slim waist before addressing me. Not only wasn’t he answering my questions, but he was also doing that thing he does that always gets my blood boiling. Unless you push the right buttons, getting a direct fight out of Louis is impossible. Non, he enjoys indirectly insulting by making his opinions seem oh so logical and everyone who disagrees with them would just have to be a complete and utter idiot, wouldn’t they? He’s like one of those “macho” men who when they shake your hand make a point of squeezing the living daylights out of your fingers to remind you who’s in charge around here. If you tell them to kindly stop crushing your hand then you look like a weakling and a fool, but if you let them continue then they’ll think they’ve won. When I was a mortal, I had my own little creative ways of getting back at men like that. Nowadays I simply accidentally break their fingers.
And so, just as I was about to metaphorically break Louis’ fingers, he pulled a terrible little trick. Clad in only a towel, he took a step forward and ran a slightly wet finger around my lips. “Besides, look at how ravishing you are tonight,” he said. “Look at your hair...c'est parfait!...and your choice of clothing. Mon dieu, you're beautiful, Lestat, and I want the world to see me on your arm.”
Bastard. How was I going to break such delicious, talented fingers now? Louis had fingers a pianist would kill for. As for his compliments…well, he was right, wasn’t he? I had always not-so-secretly prided myself on my hair. Mane, more like. Completely untamable and unruly…but perhaps that’s why I like it so much. Tonight it was softer than usual due to the what some might call excessive amount of washing and my blonde curls tickled my neck and bare shoulders.
As for my pants, I had picked out a nice pair that hugged my hips and fit comfortably but snugly simultaneously (a near impossibility in this modern world in which the only tight pants seem to be made out of some cardboard material which is stiff as a board and takes days to wear in, forcing you to walk like Frankenstein’s monster for the first couple days). Granted, even if they hadn’t been a particularly nice pair of pants, I’m sure I would have received similar praise as all my clothes complement my style. There’s no point in buying an article of clothing if it doesn’t look just stunning on you (and, mon dieu, I do wish I could get that through mortals’ thick skulls. With the way some of them dress nowadays, it’s enough to make anyone who knows what the word clash means gag. I mean, come on, pants around your knees? Fishnets on your arms? Bellbottoms? Pillbox hats? Do we own a mirror?).
What can I say? I’m a devil, but I’m a gorgeous devil. I’m actually surprised there’s only been one movie made about me. Well, two if you include that atrocity in which I was played by a ponce. But really. You would think considering how very…visually attractive I am, people would just be jumping to portray me in some sort of visual medium. I’m not trying to be arrogant here, I’m just honest. Really, who doesn’t love me? I even love me. In fact, if I was anyone else—
Ah…but we were arguing about something, weren’t we? Something to do with…me looking nice today…and Louis on my arm…and Louis standing before me, still dripping slightly, with a white towel wrapped around his hips, and a delicious little pout on his perfectly kissable lips…no, I’m pretty sure our argument had nothing to do with his lips, but it was about to go somewhere in that general direction. Ah, damn him, no, forget that, I wasn’t going to kiss him quite yet, I wasn’t even going to think about kissing him, because if I so much as tasted the small water droplet resting on the curve of his bottom lip I would be giving him the impression that he had won our little argument and I’d be damned if I admitted defeat. Call a truce, maybe, but admit I had lost? Never.
“Fine,” I said, because it seemed to be a perfectly…well…a perfectly fine thing to say at the moment. “Just hurry up and get dressed, will you? I don’t have all night.” All night! Yes, that is exactly what we were arguing about, plans for tonight. Victory was, for now, mine. “And why don’t you at least tell me what you” (without my permission!) “planned for us to do for the night so I can decide what to wear.” I positively hated being left in the dark, almost as much as I hated the fact that Louis had mapped out our day on his own. I’ll be the first to admit I have low patience and when I want something I more or less get it (you wonder why they call me Brat Prince?). I wasn’t about to play a guessing game to figure out something as simple as where we were going tonight.
The clock claimed almost two hours had already eaten the black night. Two hours and I had done nothing but get dressed and order wine! The thought came that I should have completely sucked the boy who delivered my wine dry instead of just taking a little drink to keep my thirst at bay, then at least I would have felt like I accomplished something.
“These plans of yours better be good,” I informed Louis, “because if they aren’t I’ll have wasted an entire night here. Which, by the way, will be entirely your fault as you took dreadfully long to make these golden plans and I’ve been waiting on you this whole time.”
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Mar 5, 2007 15:50:55 GMT 1
Lestat was silent for a very long time. This was a very good sign for me. Whenever Lestat is silent, it means that he is seriously considering whatever it is that is plaguing him. In this case, it was my suggestion…non, my order…to get dressed. We were going out, and he did not have a choice in the matter. Finally, he spoke, and when he did, I knew that he seemed content in what he was saying. In his mind, he had won. That, also, was utterly untrue. In no way shape or form had he won. In fact, he almost always labored behind a false impression. Why? Lestat had a need to be right.
If he was right, that meant that he could do whatever it was that he wanted. If he was right, in his mind, he was controlling the situation. That was the thing about Lestat: he needed constant control. There was one instance in the early 1800’s. I was just coming around to understanding Lestat and his “wily” ways. I wanted to go to a performance by an orchestra that Lestat had no desires to see. In fact, he had made his intentions clear for some time. Perhaps I wanted to see it mainly because Lestat did not.
However, I begged and pleaded for some time, and even drew up a rather egregiously long list of reasons why I thought he would enjoy the performance. Lestat did not believe that any performance was worth seeing if there was no plot, no story, and no action other than a few fingers moving every so often. Granted, he had a lovely relationship with a violinist, but allow me to remind you that this violinist accompanied his play when he was Lelio. This violinist played in the street with Lestat while he performed. This violinist rarely played for Lestat on his own, and when he did, Lestat could not listen for long before attacking this violinist with his lips.
However, my reasons were good, and I was certain that Lestat would agree with me. At least, I prayed that he would. Why shouldn’t he? I reasoned that my list was perfectly reasonable. And the only orchestras that I had seen perform in the past were for mass, as an added “treat.” Finally, Lestat realized that this was something that was actually important to me. Now, Lestat will do whatever he wants, but there are some times that he will give in. He’s not an entirely selfish bastard. He does, sometimes, meet me halfway.
I have always said that the only thing Lestat hates more than a bad hair day is seeing me unhappy. Perhaps this is because, when I am unhappy, I’m rather reclusive. And God knows that Lestat craves attention almost all of the time. But whatever the reason, there are times when Lestat will give up what he wants in order to ensure me a moment of happiness. This is what he did with the orchestra.
However, he presented it as though it was his idea. “Louis, I think we should go to the orchestra performance. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve changed my mind. Who needs a plot, anyway? Most of them are so boring, and dull, and besides, all they do is make me sick with the knowledge that I could have performed it better.” It was a perfectly logical explanation for a perfectly illogical brat. But I loved him for it. And I loved him for the fact that he wanted to make me happy.
We went to the orchestra, and Lestat seemed complacent the entire time. I thanked him profusely, and for some time, I was relatively argument free (except, of course, when Lestat himself wanted one). And here we were, again. It seemed as though it WAS so long ago, and we were having the exact same conversation. Lestat was relenting, but he demanded to know where we were going. Well, that was part of the surprise. I’m not one to surprise people, and Lestat is not one to like surprises. However, this was something I knew had to be kept undercover. I wanted his reaction when he realized that I really CAN take a hint.
Mon dieu, of course I could. He had practically written it in the sky. It also seemed as though Lestat wanted to pick a fight, but I was determined not to let that happen. Tonight needed to be perfect and tonight needed to be beautiful, and I have every intention in the world to make it that. He was receiving what he wanted, and I wanted to as well. What was it that I wanted? I wanted Lestat to be happy. Other than that, I would have given up the world.
I listened to everything that he said with the patience of a mother and finally, I spoke softly. “You look nice in anything you wear. Why don’t you wear the blouse with all of your ruffles? I know that you like it, and you love positively stunning in it. A nice pair of black trousers will suffice. You will want to look nice, but not over the top. Not many people, where we’re going, understand the formality of dressing up.” And then I flashed him a soft smile, fangs gently protruding forward. I made my way into the room, and into my drawer, pulling out a few assorted articles of clothing for me to wear myself.
Although it was not needed anymore, it was a habit for me to wear undergarments. Granted, it was a habit that I could have broken 215 years ago, but I chose not to. And nowadays, I was glad. Undergarments were usually extremely soft, and much softer than the trousers. They were almost a necessity for comfort. I slipped some on, then let the towel drop. Black shirt, black pants…I would never change my personal style as Lestat would never change his. What is that expression? If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it.
I lay my choice of apparel on the bed and stepped away to observe it. Fine, fine, it was fine. I began to dress myself, then lifted the towel from the floor and shook it through my unruly locks. My hair is actually quite wavy when it’s wet. If I blow it dry, it straightens out like a stick, but if I don’t, it remains as untamable as Lestat’s. I decided not to blow it dry. “Hurry up,” I urged quietly, moving to apply a small bit of eyeliner. The Gothic look was in now, and I was a Gothic beauty. “We’ve got to leave in just a few minutes.”
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Mar 29, 2007 20:38:53 GMT 1
And they call me the damnedest creature. You wonder why? Try living with Louis. Look at him, avoiding my questions as to our destination, complimenting my style, then flashing me a smile complete with a hint of fang. Bastard! When did I miss the class on Pulling Lestat’s Strings 101? It was damn near infuriating. He knew me way too well. I needed to do something completely unpredictable to throw him off balance. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll pick up his Dickens and sit in the corner reading silently to myself. We’ll see who’s laughing then, won’t we?
Let it be known now that I loathe surprises. Perhaps it’s because nothing good has ever come from surprises in all my immortal life. Surprise, you’re chosen to be the fledgling vampire of a psychopath! Surprise, your mortal lover killed himself after Armand lopped his beautiful hands off! Surprise, the Queen of all vampires has deemed you her perfect companion and you’ve been selected by fate itself to stand beside the biggest feminism campaign known to vampire and mankind!
Non…surprises aren’t exactly my cup of tea, as it were. However, there was a good chance that tonight held no psychopaths, Armands, and vampire queens (but am I being redundant?). In fact, there was even a possibility that tonight could be…well…fun. I was dressing up, Louis was dressing up, and we were in the heart of the city that never sleeps…honestly, it could be worse.
He disappeared into the room and got dressed. I followed a moment after to find him decked in his funeral clothes. Ah, if I didn’t know better I would think that some artist had run out of color by time he got to Louis, left with only enough green to dot his eyes and a smidgen of red to blush his lips. I’d always been one for lightening rooms with crimson reds, deep blues, emerald greens, flashing subtle but bold colors, extravagant but never over the top, I knew how to play the right cards at the right times. And Louis? True to his nature, simple but elegant; he had an eye for detail but rarely bothered to open it unless pressured. I’d never admit it, but he wasn’t a bad dresser when he threw away the rags and directed his attention to looking nice.
I decided the pants I had on were just fine and slipped on the blouse Louis had mentioned. It was a bit of a nostalgic piece of clothing, a nice loose white shirt with ruffles reminiscent of older times running down my lapel, curling around my collar, and dripping from the ends of my cuffs. Trimmed and neatened for modern wearers, but they still held a familiar comfort.
And look at Louis with his eyeliner. What did I say about him and detail? As if his eyes needed to be brought out anymore. He was encouraging me (or himself, I could never be quite sure who exactly he was talking to when he spoke softly like that) to hurry up just as I finished tying my shoes.
“Well I’m ready,” I informed him and hooked an arm around his waist, pulling him away from the mirror. “So if you’re quite done with your little makeup then let’s leave. I can’t stand being in this room any longer, so if you have more primping to do hurry it up because I’ll wait outside.”
I stole a quick glance out the window. I was getting anxious, or rather, more anxious than before. I positively hungered to be outside this room and Louis was simply frustrating me with his slowness.
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Mar 30, 2007 15:41:53 GMT 1
When Lestat jerked me away from the mirror, I gasped in surprise. But I was shocked to find that it was a pleasant surprise. Lestat was rough with me occasionally and each time, it immediately put vulgar images into my mind. Most of the times when he was rough with me, I ended up on my back, bound to a bed, while he teased me to the point of near explosion. Or rather, to the point of a "little death." But not tonight. Tonight, he merely wanted to yank me away from what I was doing. I gave a little yelp when he pulled me, as I had not been expecting him at all. But when he nearly scooped me up into his arms, I found myself comfortable there. Leaning forward, I pressed a little kiss to his lips, savoring in how unprepared and plush they were. I held my mouth against his for what seemed like an hour before gently pulling away, smiling.
"I'm ready," I declared, pulling my old wallet into the back pocket of my pants. I had attained the wallet once when walking through the streets of Paris. It was very old. In fact, it was about a century old. And it was tattered, falling apart to bits. But I still held onto it. It served his purpose, and besides: I was a bit of a packrat, and as far as I was concerned, that wallet had sentimental value. Whether or not it actually did was hardly the issue at hand. Mon dieu, to me, a piece of lint could be nostalgic, depending on who it had touched and what I had been doing at the time.
But this was a different kind of nostalgia. This was nostalgia in the making. I pulled away from Lestat's grip and headed for the door. Within minutes, we were out into the fresh night's air. It was brisk, and sweet, regardless of all of the fecal matter that could be smelled everywhere. It was actually quite disgusting, but there was something romantic about being out in it with Lestat. It was something like being back in New Orleans, when we first met. The smell was very similar: Booze, urine, blood, and sex. It was a very strange, and yet comforting, combination of copper, liquor, and acid that seemed to burn a hole into the nostrils.
I took up a quick gait, checking my watch. We had enough time. I pat the wallet in my back pocket to make sure it was there, as that was exactly where our tickets were. Comforted, I sighed. And then, I did something very unlike me. In fact, I was shocked at myself. But tonight was different. Tonight was something I wanted to be nothing short of memorable. With a little sigh, I hung back a little, and slipped my hand into Lestat's. I gave it a little squeeze, and picked back up my pace. I was the "French gentleman." I believed that affection should be reserved for the privacy of one's home. I did not believe in publically broadcasting it. Especially in today's world, with added bigotry and the emphasis on the harm of touching.
After what seemed like hours (when it was probably only minutes) the theatre loomed in the distance. I found a smile passing over my lips as my chest swelled from pride and anxiousness. I imagined that perhaps I should have offered that we feed beforehand, but I was so nervous from the situation that I merely wanted to get us there. Besides, I had fed the previous night. I did not need to again.
When we arrived at the Palace, I stopped outside of the doors, dropping Lestat's hand. There it was, in all his majestic glory. Five doors, with a letter on each of them. L-E-S-T-A-T. It was brilliant. Everything he would have ever wanted out of his narcissist little mind. His name portrayed beautifully in deep crimson letters, with pictures of the back of a blonde god floating in midair, his hunter green coat trailing to the ground. It was beautiful, and it was magically Lestat. I paused outside of the door and glanced over at him, regally pleased with myself. "Well?" I asked quietly. "What do you think? I bought tickets this evening and everything. I...bought box seats. I figured that it may become...emotional and so, I don't want them to see my...tears." If you catch my drift.
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Apr 12, 2007 0:16:36 GMT 1
Louis had surprised me with a small kiss and now the warmth from his touch lingered as we left the hotel into the cool evening breeze. Ah, mon dieu. New York City. The very air seemed to hum with electricity, beneath our feet the ground rattled minutely from the passing underground train. There was an unidentifiable metallic smell which hung unnoticed by the many mortals passing one another like horses with blinders. The night seemed to have dampened burnt out hostilities from the day's work and there was an air of mutual contentment. The lights of Times Square made the buildings look like they were ablaze. In the streets, we had a cast of drunks, eccentrics, tourists, students, business men, the extravagant theatergoer, the casual dog walker. Night owls. City of insomniacs, you and I just may get along fine.
I was so caught up in the wealth of distractions, I almost didn’t notice Louis’ hand intertwine with mine until I felt him give a little pressure and close the gaps between our fingers. I smiled a little and turned to him, surprised, but he was a man on a mission and focused intently on the destination ahead of us. Public affection wasn’t exactly Louis’ cup of tea as it were; trust me, I have received countless hushed snaps and even a couple good slaps when he’s really in a rotten mood to prove it. What can I say? I want what I want, when I want it, be it in a public or private space. And, yes, it is just delicious to see Louis’ cheeks sport a crimson blush and his emerald eyes flash. Granted, there are those rare moments when Louis will yield to me, but often only in a secluded area, hidden under the darkness of a soft shadow. And, dieu, do I ever cherish those moments and drag them out as long as humanly (or, rather, vampirely) possible.
But…digressing. Ah, digression, how I love you. When you’ve got all the time in the world…digressing becomes second nature. Footnote upon footnote upon footnote. At least I’m not like Marius. Merde! Talk about a jaw that never closes! That man will talk a mile a minute and then some! It’s a miracle I can make to my bedroom before dawn when I speak with him. And it’s always either chiding or some drawn out tale about something he did years before the invention of the wheel (I swear, the way he goes on about the past is phenomenal. Conjure up some image of a great uncle with six glasses too much of cheap wine in his gut and I’m sure you’ll understand what I’m talking about). What am I, a child? I refuse to be kept in check! Go ahead, scold me all night, but I promise you that everything you say will go in one ear and come out the other. Find a comatose victim, I’ve got bigger things to do than watch my ears bleed.
Louis was nervous—and no, by the way, I’m not bothering with transitions—Louis was nervous and I could tell by the chaos on his face, the kind of busy distraction of a dog eagerly waiting for a bone to be thrown with anxious eyes. It was infectious, all the more so because I could not account for his anxiousness. I hated waiting. In fact, I’m certain waiting physically hurts me. I’m diseased with a fatal impatience. Louis, as usual, was doing nothing but put salt in the wound—
But then he stopped. I stopped. We stopped. I felt my hand and jaw drop. My name. In big, crimson letters. Each letter resting comfortably on its own door. Flashy, grand. You could see it a mile away in the dark. Posters with a man (presumably, me. We will see about that) hovering, coat dripping from his shoulders, golden hair shimmering. The words “DIE YOUNG, LIVE FOREVER” all but glowing. My musical. About my book. A crowd already inside, shuffling about, waiting in anticipation for me. It brought me back for a moment to my career as a rockstar, the audience, the fame, the love. And me, center stage, basking in a glory Achilles could only dream of.
Perfect.
I turned to Louis, speechless. So this was his big surprise. And, merde, what a surprise! Sure, I had hinted about my desire to see this play, but I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. I knew he was never particularly fond of my books, The Vampire Lestat wasn’t an exception (if anything, it was his least favorite), and I didn’t expect him to even really want to see this. But…here we were…and Louis had this completely endearing smile plastered on his face when he spoke.
"Well?" he said. "What do you think? I bought tickets this evening and everything. I...bought box seats. I figured that it may become...emotional and so, I don't want them to see my...tears.”
Box seats. Mon dieu, this was all too…delicious!
I did the only thing I could do. I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him close, giving him a brief but passionate kiss.
“What do I think?” I said softly when I broke my lips (mournfully. Reluctantly. Dreadfully) apart from his. “I…merde…I think it’s amazing. It…is positively brilliant. I take back what I said about surprises. I love them. Adore them. Want to shove them against the wall and ravish them. Come! Let’s go inside!”
I took him by the hand and led him through the doors (pausing briefly to decide which letter to go through and ultimately deciding on the “L”). I was positively spinning when I saw how many people where there. It was unreal! It occurred to me then that this was the break that I had strived for as a mortal. People coming from all around to see me, on stage, in all my glory. True, it wasn’t exactly me on the stage, but it was a man pretending to be me, and that was nearly just as good.
A woman was asking for our tickets and I nearly felt insulted. Did she know who I was? Well, obvious, no, no she didn’t, but there really ought to be some reward for writing the book and living the life the musical is based off of. The dreadful horror of being anonymous! Never mind that, never mind that, I dipped my hand in Louis’ pocket and found the tickets, handing them to the woman who then directed us to our seats. I sat down and stared longingly at the stage, red curtains drawn shut like an insulted lover.
“How long do we have to wait?” I asked. I’d been waiting all night, and didn’t want to wait much longer. The anticipation was terrible.
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Apr 13, 2007 15:07:42 GMT 1
My stomach was churning as I sat and waited for Lestat’s responses. I felt like I was waiting for a natural disaster, rather than the reaction of my lover for something that I should have already known the answer to. Mon dieu, if I didn’t think that he would enjoy it, I wouldn’t have bought the tickets in the first place because, let’s face it, I might be masochistic slightly, but masochism where Lestat is the sadist is a whole new brand of S&M. At least with Armand, you know what you’re getting into. It’ll be a series of lashes, some harsh words, some proclamation of, “I’m yours, Sir” and then it’s done and you go your merry way to pretend like it never happened.
I mean, not that I’d know or anything.
But with Lestat, it’s very different. His sadism scales a very different, and a very elitist, pattern. You present yourself ready to be controlled and instead, he dumps a cat on your head and tells you to train it to do a somersault. And when you can’t do that, you’re forced to sleep in your own coffin that morning until he wakes you up the next night, giving you a second chance to do it with a ferret. Lestat is positively impossible to please when pressured, and so I never attempt it anymore. I don’t surprise him; I don’t even look at him in an “I’ve got an idea” sort of way anymore.
But I felt, with immense confidence, that he would like this. That, however, did not ease my, as the songs call it, “troubled mind” as I waited for a reaction. And slowly, I saw it all sink in on his face. That is another thing about Lestat. He may be an actor, and perhaps one day he was very good, but he’s quite horrible now. He can never hide exactly what it is that he is feeling. It’s always spelled out IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS on his forehead. His eyes, expression, all of it seem to alter with how he is feeling. I’m sure that he could hide it if he wanted to, but at this point, I don’t see what good it would be because I don’t even think that he’s aware he does it.
But his eyes completely lit and for a moment, I felt so happy by it all that I was ready to burst. I could feel my smile reaching up to kiss my eyes and when he kissed me, I was too content to do anything except kiss him back. I was being horribly unlike myself. In any usual scenario, I would have shoved him off or smacked him upside the head. Or perhaps I would have just fallen silent and not spoken to him for the remainder of the night. However, as I said, let’s make some nostalgia. I wanted for Lestat too love this night so much that he used it against me later. “Hey, Louis, you remember when you put your feelings of my books aside and instead focused on your feelings for me?” Or my favorite, I could tell: “Hey, Louis, hold my hand. You let me KISS YOU in public when we saw Lestat.”
Oui; that would be the true measure of how well I did tonight.
Lestat was all but dragging me along, though I could not say that I blamed him. He flicked his eyes over the doors and I could practically hear his thoughts saying, “Which one?” At first, not being able to read his mind was frustrating. But at this point, I knew him so well that it almost didn’t matter anymore. I could predict what he was going to say far before he said it. I felt his hands slip into my back pocket (oh, he was good. He had a good memory AND he got to “cop a feel.”) before he passed the tickets to the woman asking for them.
Again, I could completely sense his thoughts. “Damn mortal woman, who doesn’t know who I am.” Well, Lestat, I had to break it to you, but besides the few stubborn individuals in the world who actually gave a damn when it came down to it, everyone else believes that the books were what they were presented to be: fiction. It’s our own doing, I know, but you did it, too. Slapping the name “Anne Rice” on the books pretty much discouraged any ability of the reader to comprehend that it could be something less than fictional. If you wanted something more substantial, you could have, would have, should have published it under your name.
Not that anyone would have believed you, but that’s a different issue completely.
By the time we arrived at our seats, Lestat was teeming with nervous energy. I glanced him over, finally placid for the first time that night, and I wondered if that was anything close to how I had been earlier. If that was the case, then I pitied Lestat, and honestly did not have any anger for the way that he reacted when I first made my suggestions. But we were here now, and that was all that mattered. “How long do we have to wait?” That was all that he could say.
I chuckled a little bit and slipped my hand over. “Well,” he replied softly, glancing at my watch, “the performance starts at 8:00, and so that would mean that we have about three minutes, providing your lack of hurriedness to leave.” I chuckled and leaned over, giving his cheek a soft kiss, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, and then slowly leaned back in my chair.
It was plush, comfortable, and red. And the lighting on the stage seemed to melt into red, slowly and gently giving rippling effects going across the entire curtain. I sat in silence for the rest of the time, nervous and awaiting, and finally, the first few chords of music sounded.
Regardless of whether or not this evening was for Lestat, I was suddenly more excited than I had ever thought possible. This was huge. This was bigger than Lestat’s stupid “concert.” This was a story: our story. And this was all because I’d decided to talk to my food one night rather than drink. It was all so exciting, and much like the ripple effect I was observing on the curtain. My nerves were about to kill me.
I found myself on the edge of my seat, elbows peaked on the rim of the box seat, and my foot tapped in time to the song. The curtain parted, and out traipsed a blonde. I imagined it would have to be Lestat. He held a large dagger in hand, and made his way to the front of the stage. “In the winter of my twenty-first year, I set out to kill a pack of wolves…” Oh yes, this was Lestat all right. After a few intricacies of dance indicating the struggle, I was completely riveted.
I glanced over to see Lestat’s reaction, and after watching his face for a good few minutes, I turned my attention completely back over to the musical. It raged on. I watched as his father slapped him across the face. I watched as his mother told him to leave. And then I watched as he left for Paris.
This was the most amusing part of it all. It’s no secret that I have a secret jealousy and worry for Nicolas. Part of me has always believed that, were Nicolas to return, Lestat would give me a parting kiss and high-tail it, Stradivarius in hand. And so, when I knew that the scenes with Nicolas were about to display, I inwardly cringed. But whatever feelings of trepidation that were concerning me soon melted away into nothing as I saw the play’s little change.
Nicolas was playing Lelio. And Nicolas was blonde. My hand fought its way to my mouth to stifle my soft laughter, and I knew that from that moment on, I would never look at Nicolas the same way again. I reasoned that Lestat would not, either. Granted, his continued story was tragic (when Armand and his coven attempted to whisk him away, I could not begin to understand the emotions that Lestat was feeling at seeing this displayed in such an open manner…though I figured that the long black wig and Antonio Banderas type look would give Lestat mocking material for years to come). But when Nicolas went to climb into the fire, all I could think of was, “There goes Blondie.”
The rest of Act One was series of events that turned out to be nothing short of a blur. Lestat went on and on, searching for answers that Armand wouldn’t give him, blah, blah, blah. That isn’t to say that I was bored. I wasn’t bored at all. But I was, perhaps, a little bit leery at the end of Act One when Marius showed up in a toga looking like some poor form of Buddha. Laughter subsiding, as the lights for intermission rose, I leaned back in my chair, chuckling very softly to myself. And for the moment, I nearly forgot that Lestat was there at all.
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Apr 14, 2007 4:08:15 GMT 1
The curtains rose. For a small moment, I remembered what it was like to be on the other side. A man who I assumed to be me stepped out on stage.
But how odd it was so see someone pretending to be me! I had similar qualms with seeing myself be impersonated by Tom Cruise and Stuart Townsend. No matter how good (or bad) the actor, they never do it exactly right. There's always something missing, something they got wrong, some little glitch that infuriates you to no end, and even though you know it's really petty to complain about the fact that he talks too slowly or walks too lightly or laughs too emotionlessly, this is you we're speaking of and if they can't damn well get it right why don't they hand it over to the one who knows best: that is, Yours Truly. Of course, there is the slight problem with the fact that I'd be impossible to contact for a show considering the fact that I'm supposedly "fiction"...but you'd think they might have at least made a courteous attempt. A small note on the door of the Rue Royale, something, anything, a little Hey, Lestat, not sure if you're real or not, but if you get this letter and would like to stop by the rehearsal studio midnight tomorrow we'd appreciate it... I am not saying I'd even agree to do anything anyway, but all the same, it's always nice to know you're being thought of.
What I'm trying to say is this: actors never fully get it. It's impossible. Even I don't always get it. But they even less so. And, not that I'm complaining or anything, but...well, after spending more or less two hundred years staring in the mirror I have high expectations when someone claims to look like me. He had the long, blond hair, sure, his build was fine, and he did have something mischievous in his smile. Granted, he was no Paris of Priam, but he wasn't a Quasimodo either. Not to mention, the sound that left that mortals lips was nothing short of glorious.
The performance started just as my novel did, with the killing of the pack of wolves (one of my most favorite subjects to talk about, by the way. If you killed a pack of wolves with nothing but your weapons--and no, you pathetic modern hunters, I'm not talking about cowardly hunting rifles, this is the real deal, as you say--and your horse and two dogs, you would be proud too). The scene moved quickly to Gabrielle, my father, and that sad excuse for a town we lived in. Seeing my mother once again ill, once again dying, for a moment brought back pangs of fear and protectiveness, but I let them fall away as quickly as they came. I promised myself I would try not to get too pulled into it all; after all, the past is just as it implies, past, over, done with, there's no good in getting wrapped up in it again. Best to watch the musical at a distance, reminisce slightly perhaps, but in the end leave it all to memory.
As it turns out, I'm terrible at keeping promises, even when I make them for myself. It wasn't until Nicolas appeared that I became completely entranced. Remember now, this was the first time anyone had really recognized Nicolas in an adaptation of my books. I for one never looked back on my writing myself; Louis used to tell me I never put any real heart in my art (mostly when he, watching me from his spot in the lounge chair, listened absently to what he called a passionateless rendition of Moonlight Sonata. So shoot me if I don't put tears into everything I create like some vampires I know), but some memories once revisited are tired and worn. And so, besides the occasional fight in which Louis brought him up in order to...I don't know what...prove a point, I suppose...I hadn't heard Nicolas' name leave anyone's lips for decades. In fact, I did my best to prevent that from happening; out of sight, out of mind, some things are truly best left untouched.
And now?
There he was. A mortal (blonde mortal at that. I could feel my bottom lips twitch as I, for once, attempted to save the laughter for someplace where it might be more appropriate), saying Nicki's lines, playing a violin, and for all intents and purposes taking on Nicolas' role. I expected perhaps a minor twinge of nostalgia but...merde...
There we were. Embracing, laughing, teasing, playing. The music wasn't as powerful, as heavenly, but it was the same song, his voice, not Nicki's by far, but with the same softness, the set, not our house, hardly a bed and door, but mon dieu, our ceilings had been that low, we did have to duck before entering. It was different, but the same. And I knew the ending, oh, that was the horror, I was there. I had half a mind to jump on the stage, to shake them both and tell them to damn well enjoy it while it lasted. Enjoy it, yes. But warn them? And what if I could? Tell them to get away. Leave Paris before Magnus found me. Live the rest of their lives happy, content, mortal.
I don't think so. Call me selfish, call me what you wish, but warn them I would never. Because, let's face it, without Magnus, without Armand's pathetic coven, and without, finally, Nicki's end, where would I be? Not here, not sitting beside my raven haired, emerald eyed beauty. And there was nowhere, nowhere I would rather be.
Louis? He didn't know this. And I knew he didn't know. I knew his jealousy, I knew how the word replacement haunted him. I knew he still wondered if the candle I held for Nicki outshined his own. Non, Louis, a thousand times non. But to tell him this? Never. Because, really, this was my last card. If Louis knew, it would be obvious how pathetically desperate I am for him, how completely I depend on his love. Mon dieu, if ever anyone had me wrapped around their little finger...
I turned to Louis to see his expression to find a small trace of amusement dancing across his face, curving his lips ever so slightly. I could only assume he was gloating over the fact that the one man he considered to be a real threat was ridiculously blonde, flamingly flamboyant, and did I mention blonde?
Back on stage, Nicki was going into the fire. This I wasn't certain if I could stomach, no matter how unreal. Nicki was, after all, Nicki, and yes, not Louis, and yes, nothing but memory, but who's to say memory doesn't hurt, even after all these years? Granted, I believe I would have been able to distance myself from the scene relatively simply if it wasn't for a...little rewriting of history. There I was, the distraught lover, helping Nicki into the fire. I damn near jumped out of my seat. What? Me, assisting in the death of my mortal lover? I could practically feel myself turn a shade paler. Years--non, decades--I had spent convincing--telling--reminding (that's the word)--reminding myself that Nicki's death was not my fault. He asked to be turned, the imp (the imp, by the way? Can I take you out of my impassioned monologue for a quick moment? The impishness! The obvious obsession with me! His utterly pathetic coven! Mon dieu, but vengeance is the sweetest when it is a mockery for all to see dressed up in a ridiculous black wig) cut off his precious hands, I was hardly a fledgling...
And there I was. Literally leading Nicki into the fire. Twist the knife a little deeper, will you, because I don't think it's quite reached the other side yet? How dare they! The hair I could take, the Lelio, yes, fine, if you must, but this! This is too many steps too far. I swear, it was going to take a miracle to dampen my fury.
Let me rephrase that sentence. It was going to take a black Marius in an elaborate toga appearing from an overdramatic meld of mist and light to dampen my fury. My self control went out with the lights and I burst into a roar of laughter that bordered on a full blown laughing fit. Mon dieu, I needed that. The lights rose softly once the curtain had fallen and the mortals immediately began speaking amongst themselves.
My laughter died down and I noticed Louis chuckling to himself as well. Now, there are moments, I must admit, in which Louis becomes somewhat of a part of the background. He's so familiar, so always there, that at times it's easy to think of him as something of an extension of my shadow. And then, there are the other moments, the moments which happen so terribly frequently with Louis I hardly know what to do with them. There are those moments in which I feel as though I'm seeing him again for the first time, those moments in which I silently burn with contentment simply at his very presence. I don't know what the devil brings on these moments, but I tell you as soon as I find out I am making sure I have tight reigns over them. Because they are so terribly distracting, when the life in his eyes becomes that much more mesmerizing, when the shine in his hair makes it near impossible not to reach out and touch. That butterfly delicacy in the structure of his face, underlined with strong curves and soft shadows. His thin frame, that curve of his shoulders seemingly made for a chin to rest in, those tantalizing fingers. The distance in his glowing emeralds sharply accented with black mascara, and it seemed for a moment as though he had completely forgotten I am there. Which, of course, just made it all the more imperative that I gain his attention.
Mon dieu, but how I loved him. How I loved not only his beauty, but that his beauty was completely Louis. Everything, down to the apparent frailty in his build matched by those strong but subtle curves and dips that defined his body. And the sharpness that I fashioned only I could see, that wildness behind the gentle exterior. Beautiful One indeed.
And all I could think was: How long is intermission? Enough time for...?
I slid my arm around his waist and moved closer to him, letting out a sigh. "Mon dieu," was all I could say at first. "Please tell me that was not Marius. When did he become the King of Melodramatic? Speaking of which, Armand? Ha! Did you see that imp's hair! What is it with him and getting cast as "man who wears dead cat on head"? Serves him right, I tell you."
Louis' shirt had risen slightly since he had sat down and with my arm at his waist my fingers brushed a small spot corner which had been bared. It was then I noticed how cool he was to the touch.
"Now that it is intermission," I flashes him a grin, "care to catch a drink? You look like you haven't had one all night."
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Apr 19, 2007 16:10:22 GMT 1
I was stunned when I heard Lestat’s voice. I had almost completely forgotten about his existence altogether. But his jovial sounds immediately brought me back into the realm of reality, and I moved to face him. His fingers were brushing my skin in the absolute most delicious way and I could feel an immense shudder rush through my body as though a dam had been broken. And even more shockingly, I allowed it. Tonight was different, as I had assured myself a thousand times. And although I was still reeling from the non-Romanian toga-d Marius (at least they’d gotten the color right) I suddenly felt very lucky.
The final scene with Nicolas continued to play through my mind. “Release me,” he’d said. And through his insanity, he had repeated it an additional four times. “Release me. Release me. Release me. Release me.” And Lestat had done just that. Lestat had prepared the fire. He looked up into the stars and said a prayer, so gentle that regardless of my feelings for Nicolas, I had cried softly. He prayed for God to take him. “He’s right before your eyes,” he’d sung, and I had struggled, with little success, to hide a few blood tears as they flowed down my cheek.
It was then that it hit me. This had not been some casual relationship that is so far into the past that I could just dismiss it and go on pretending as though it had never happened. I had allowed my jealousy to overcome me in this time, as evil as it was. I had allowed for my melancholy and self-doubt to creep in and tug at me until I had nearly broken down. But that, I found, was utterly unnecessary. Every time, I imagined, that I questioned Lestat’s love for me…every time that I insisted that he should leave the memory of Nicolas behind…I could only imagine that it killed him.
How selfish I had been! And I finally understood quite how far that went when I glanced over. Lestat was watching “himself” ease Nicolas into the flames and his face was nothing short of miserable. And suddenly, it all became blaringly clear. I thought of the Stradivarius. Up until now, it had seemed to be nothing short of a burden. But now, I saw something much more. It was his final, and only, tie to anything from his mortality. And what did I have? I had clothing, photographs, lockets, and a thousand other things that I had probably already forgotten about.
But he had the violin…and his mother, but God knows I do not count her in the slightest. But that damned violin linked him to the only thing in mortality that he really loved. And although it had descended into nothing short of darkness, it had been something true and real. And what could Lestat have done? Had he been there, he only could have watched his love walk into the fire.
And now, I was all that he had. Sure, he had David and (dare I say it) Armand and Quinn and, oh I don’t know. But that did not take away from the fact that he did NOT have Nicolas any longer. I was his lover now, irreplaceable and constant. Slowly, I reached over and took his hand in a shockingly mortal gesture of comfort. I held it, squeezing it softly, before bringing my hand back to my own lap. I wanted for him to understand that I understood. I understood his pain. I understood his suffering. If I was not allowed to pine after Claudia at times, I believe that I would go insane.
And here I was, denying him the mourning of the one other that he had ever given his heart to. His heart had been in pieces when he met me, as had mine. And slowly over the years, together, we put them back together. Admittedly, it has taken us about two hundred years, but that is how I now know that it is real. The moment the assurance I needed hit me was the moment Lestat asked me to turn his then-mortal body vampiric. In that moment when I looked at him, my first thought was, “Anyone except Lestat.”
I cannot seem to look at him any longer without seeing everything that I have ever thought that I could want. Yes, perhaps I have been haunted by the concept of being nothing short of a replacement, but that has slowly waned over time in order to release itself to something far more beautiful. He approached me for my similarity to the one he lost. Perhaps I was. I was tragic in nature and gothic in beauty. But he saw something far beyond that somewhere along the lines and when we fell in love, we fell.
Lestat and I have never exactly talked about falling in love with one another. It is just something that IS. Both of us know it, and we declare “Je t’aime” every once in a while. However, our love is something so much more than that. It goes beyond constant proclamation. It goes beyond your average dates and two-bit attempts at sex. My love with Lestat runs so deeply that, sitting next to him in a box seat at a theatre that is packed to the brim with people, I don’t even have to say anything. I can just FEEL it. Even when he is so angry with me that his eyes seem to flash red, I can FEEL his love for me. It’s the kind of silent admonishment of, “I’m only doing this because I love you.”
I have given him that look on many occasions. But still, I finally understood. Dieu, and here I thought that these scenes would be nothing short of torture! But I found myself drug in by the hair, as though some greater being had insisted that I learn these lessons immediately. I had spent the past two hundred and sixteen years tortured by that entity, but as soon as he flounces out with a blonde wig, and Lestat flings him into a fire, I understand.
Intermission could not have come at a better time. Lestat could not seem to stop talking about this thing or that, going off about Marius and Armand (I knew that that poor vampire would be hearing about it later. I almost pitied him) and who knows what else. It all got thrown into the mix, as I just listened, quietly laughing to myself. It was then that I caught the way that Lestat was looking at me. And immediately my mind went back to the display I just saw: Nicolas climbing into the fire. But that was not the result. Lestat was not sitting next to his ashes, packing them into a little locket to wear around his neck and carry with him everywhere. No. He was here with me, looking at me, loving me, laughing and touching my skin.
I realized that I had never been happier than in that moment. Urges came on strong, and for once, I allowed them. I moved swiftly over to his place and settled myself over one of his legs, mine linked between the two. I sat down carefully, straddling his thigh now and slowly leaned in. Capturing his lips with mine, I kissed him slowly at first, then more ferociously. I knew that it was probable (if not obvious) that we would be seen, but for once in my preternatural life, I didn’t care. I continued to kiss him, as my lips parted and my tongue found his. I kissed him even harder as my hands moved into his hair (carefully, so as not to mess it up) and cupped the back of his head. I pulled him nearer to me, body pressing against his tightly now, and I could feel all of me trembling by the gravity of his sheer and utter ADORATION for me.
Otherwise, I found that I would be incomplete. Without his affection (be it publicly or privately) I knew that I would shrivel away and perish. When I finally detached my lips, I gave his another small kiss before smiling. As I spoke, I allowed my mouth to remain pressed against his so that, when I talked, his lips moved slightly as well. “You’re right, I haven’t fed.” My words were lusty and soft. “But I don’t need to. Not right now. That is not the thirst that’s plaguing me at present.”
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Apr 21, 2007 5:35:14 GMT 1
I wasn't quite sure how it happened, but before I knew it Louis was on top of me. He crossed the armrest that separated us to move into my lap, straddling my thigh. He had left his hair down and when he leaned forward to press his lips against mine inky strands of hair tickled my face. He started out slowly like a mortal tentatively tasting a new wine and savoring each small sip. I melted under his touch, momentarily giving myself over to him and let him do what he will. My eyes fell closed and I began to kiss him back, my hands moving as though on their own accord up his legs and resting on his waist above his hips.
Our lips were locked and the kiss became more intense. His lips parted ever so slightly and I instantly followed suit and our tongues danced inside his warm mouth. I felt his fingers snake into my hair and cup the back of my head, pulling me closer and deepening our kiss. Intoxicating didn’t even begin to describe it. What had started as a spark of longing was blooming quickly into a hot lust and I felt my heart quicken. My hands gripped his waist and pulled him up against me, our bodies pressing together, infuriatingly separated by the thin layer of clothing ruffling between us.
I needed to touch him. I wanted to feel his soft skin under my fingertips. But I was almost afraid to...afraid of crushing him or hurting him somehow. At the same time, I just wanted to continue kissing like this, roughly and frantically as though trying our hardest to morph into one being. My hands snuck under his shirt and ran over his cool skin, so soft it nearly felt mortal. I moved my hands up his sides in a way that was supposed to momentarily satisfy my craving for his bare skin, but it only whet my longing.
But there was something in his kiss that really drove me crazy. Something in the way he savored it and yet desperately demanded more. The way he gave and took pressure, the way he shivered lightly, the way he kept our lips connected lightly even as he pulled back to speak so I could still feel his breath pattering on my mouth. It was all done so...lovingly.
“You’re right," he spoke into my mouth and I wanted nothing more than to slip my tongue back past his parted lips. His voice was breathy and thick with desire. I opened my eyes to see his own emeralds sparkling back at me. "I haven’t fed. But I don’t need to. Not right now. That is not the thirst that’s plaguing me at present.”
"Mfmgnm..." I heard the noise, but it took me a while to realize it was me who made it when I closed the gap once more between our lips.
Two hundred years, give or take a few here and there. Two centuries. And they say the spark dies the first decade or so. Oh no. With Louis, every kiss was just as sweet as the first. Every touch just as thrilling. Every word just as electrifying. I couldn’t believe how desperately I loved him even after all this time. If anything, it had all only grown stronger. There was almost something to fear in that…twenty more years, fifty, a hundred, where would be been at the end of eternity? Was it possible to love someone too much?
His eyes flashed with something almost dangerous, exciting. Was it possible I didn’t care for hypothetical questions at the moment?
My fingers traveled down his back, his silky skin pressed under my palm and his silky shirt breathing against the back of my hand. Hands moving down his spine, dipping past the rim of his pants slightly and tracing small circles, alternating between the sharp touch of my nails and the soft pads of my fingertips.
“Beautiful One,” kiss broken momentarily and mournfully, lips cold without his, “We must…quench your present thirst immediately then….” A small growl had snuck into my voice and I stopped for a short pause. I wasn’t sure how far to take this, Louis had a rather unfavorable view on public affection (I, on the other hand, forever the exhibitionist, forever the one to make a scene. Whether it was as obvious as enjoying each other in a crowded theater like tonight or something subtle like those nights with Claudia when we tiptoed around and I took pleasure in making him shudder in those rare moments she stepped out into the other room…there was something deliciously thrilling about losing yourself so completely you fall out of touch with reality). Granted, he had been the one to start me up and so far there were no protests, but it was also possible he’d be the one to end it (which, by the way, would be nothing short of cruel; but then again Louis was more subtly sadistic than he let on, you could never really tell with him).
I decided to test the waters then. I ducked my head so I could nestle against his neck, languidly butterflying kisses. I trailed my lips down the large vein in his throat and if I pressed hard enough I could feel the blood pulsing quickly, sharpening my hunger for him. “What do you think, mon lamb?” I murmured, tasting the dip of his collarbone with my tongue.
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Aug 10, 2007 17:25:47 GMT 1
There have been times in my immortality when I’ve truly been forced to take a step back and ask, “What the hell am I doing?” This was one of those moments. It was utterly uncharacteristic of me, and that was putting it nicely. My body was pressed up against Lestat’s, and even stranger still, I did not care.
I was certain that everyone in the orchestra seats could see, but all I could think about was how heavenly Lestat’s breath felt as it ghosted across my neck. I was finally aware of how warm he truly was. Drinking from Akasha had few upsides, though there were still those minute details that almost made it, well, worth it. One of those details, I envied him (Nicolas-style) for. He was able to only take a very small taste of a mortal, and still maintain his immortal warmth. I, on the other hand, was forced to take a full life to satisfy my hunger. I constantly walked around starving as a result.
But now, all I wanted was Lestat. His kisses came even quicker, melting against my lips, as though it was impossible for him to get enough of me. I felt the same way in this moment, my hips pressed firmly against his. I allowed my hands to abandon his hair to instead grip the back of the chair behind him. It proved as leverage, to drag my body closer to his. I wanted him more in this moment than I had ever wanted him before, and I could not quite seem to slate my thirst. I suddenly realized why Lestat so treasured exhibitionism.
Although I was not very keen on the idea of being watched, there was a certain element to it. It was like saying, “Back off, he’s mine.” It was less about putting on a show, and more about staking out territory. Lestat as territory? I couldn’t believe that the thought even crossed my mind. But, I supposed, that if Lestat was to be someone’s territory, he was as much mine as anyone else’s. I had that right, after putting up with him for over two centuries.
But even I, in my frenzy of passion, knew when to draw the line. Though I could feel his lips against the vein in my neck, though I could smell the copper in his blood as it tantalized my senses, though I could feel his palm splayed against the small of my back, and though I was thirstier for him than I had ever been in my preternatural life, I could not seem to bring myself to let it continue. I knew that Lestat would be angry: no doubt he would throw one of his temper tantrums.
But we were in public. It was bad enough that the world knew about us through our books. We had cleverly disguised that in the guise of fiction. But there were still believers out there, who refused to consider the possibility that these events did not TRULY happen. No, I could not humor the possibility any further than I already had. If someone in the audience below just chanced to glance upwards, and saw a blonde-haired god sucking at the neck of a rapidly paling black-haired prude, I could only imagine the things that would occur. For one, it would draw more attention to us, and God knew that we were doing a good enough job of that as it were.
It could also entertain the notion of vampires in a very real and conclusive way. Why else would two men who so closely resembled the pre-conceived notions of Lestat and Louis be sucking one another’s necks? It didn’t really make much sense, except to acknowledge the truth. I like the world of fiction much better.
And, well, I suppose that’s why I love Lestat so much. Regardless of his unpredictable “adventures” and trips to the unknown, his reactions to certain situations are nothing sort OF predictable. For example, I knew with brutal self-assurance that Lestat would be miffed for the rest of the evening when I left him dangling. But on the other fang, that only left room for passion to overflow when we returned to the hotel room later in the evening. I knew that there was no way possibly that Lestat could complain about that.
Sex was never really something that Lestat complained about, mostly because it was an occurrence that had become rather rare. It was not that I didn’t love him, but I had little interest in it. However, there were nights when it seemed as though I could not keep my hands from his body. Those were the nights that shocked him most of all. There was one evening in particular that I remember, almost more than all of the others. It was the anniversary of my immortality beginning, and Lestat had decided (by some higher power, I suppose) to take me out. He had it all planned out. It was one of his few moments of romanticism that nearly shock me back to life.
I suppose all of this build up lead me to want to shock him, as well. I digress. Lestat had planned out the evening to the minute. When I awoke, he allotted me an hour to feed, and when I returned, he had a bath running. We bathed together, very intimately (and non-sexually…another shocker), as Lestat washed my hair. He had my clothing selected and lying on my bed (shockingly, again, he had selected clothing that I would actually wear) and our evening led us outside. He lifted me into his arms and took off from the ground, and soon, we were on a rooftop somewhere in another state, perhaps another country, where all we could see were stars. I nearly mauled him with kisses, hands, touches, lips, and all that he could say was, “Are you possessed?”
Well, I was no longer possessed. In fact, the more I considered all of the options of the way the night was going, the more I realized that I should not have been in that position. I had my “What the hell am I doing?” moment. I cleared my throat (a mortal habit) and finally kissed Lestat’s temple in a very dismissive way. “I say that we prepare for the second act,” I murmured, and awkwardly stood back up. Apologetically, I cupped my hand against his cheek and smiled for a few seconds.
He would probably think that I was being condescending, or infantilizing him, but in reality, I was mentally preparing myself for a much greater and less hurried evening of passion. I settled back into the seat and crossed my legs. I wanted him, and it was obvious. My hand rested at his thigh, and I squeezed it, suddenly very interested in the intricacies of the curtain. I prayed that it would rise before I had to hear Lestat’s lecture or complaints about my lack of understanding. I knew “too little” about sexual decorum.
Well, he was hot and bothered, and if it truly offending him in such a way, he could lump it and finish the job himself in the bathroom. I would tell him so myself, if necessary. I knew, however, that it would not be. Lestat knew me too well, and was probably running the possibilities through his mind right now. “If I tell him that I’m offended, he’ll just tell me to fly solo.” He was in a corner. Well, good, it was time that the tables were turned. My lips turned upward. I was, in a word, smug.
Then was something that I barely expected. The music began (well, THAT I expected), the curtain rose, and Act Two began. I snorted. Lestat was going to have ammunition for the rest of his preternatural life. I (the character “I”) was stumbling around the stage. “I” was drunk. “I” was making a total idiot of myself. I was rather tickled by it, evidenced by my shoulders trembling from little chuckles. I decided to get in my laughs while I could.
It was only a matter of time before my face was streaked with tears. One very defining and accurate representation came, however, as “Lestat” began to convince “me” to step outside with him. “But there’s no bourbon out there,” the character “I” said. Accurately enough, bourbon had been my drink of choice. There was no bourbon in the actor’s hand. It was probably tea or something. The coloration was similar, but I could not pick up the scent of alcohol, except from the lips of many theatre-goers who had decided to have a little Intermission drink.
Still, I envied him. Perhaps I was an alcoholic (though I’m not sure how that would work), but I wanted to taste the bite and feel the warming sting of liquid slipping down my throat. Blood was nice, but bourbon was, too. Despite my obvious fear of ridicule, I leaned over towards Lestat to whisper, “Remind me to feed from a drunk mortal.” I was sure he knew the raging nostalgia that even intoxication raised. It wasn’t quite a ball of lint, but it was close enough. I glanced at Lestat to see if he was attentive…or still stewing.
|
|
|
Post by Lestat II on Aug 22, 2007 0:49:27 GMT 1
Bastard.
Bastard bastard bastard.
That was the only word that seemed to make it through my distracted mind when I felt Louis slowly (but surely. Oh so damn surely) slipping away from me. It was more of an inward slipping than an external one. As though I could feel the muscles of his stomach tense minutely, the tips of his fingers retract without immediately pulling away, and the small but lethal flitting of reality that blinked in his emerald eyes. Part of me silently held on, a small mental demand for him to stay even though I knew full well his mind would never yield to mine. But he was gone before he stepped back, two hundred years of this had taught me well.
I should have expected it, really. It was almost unforgivable not to expect it. I mean, mon dieu, when was the last time he had given himself to me in a space that was not behind closed doors? If I thought back maybe ten, twenty, fifty years, maybe I could find an answer.
But, for one, he had been the one to start it, I certainly hadn’t forced it upon him, and therefore he was obligated to follow through. A gentleman like himself should know its only common courtesy. Besides, this was my night. My surprise, my musical, my perfect night. Perhaps, I had thought, just perhaps he would allow me one small luxury in light of that...
It wasn't that I was just that needy that I couldn't keep my hands off him. Well...no, that's a bit of a lie, it really is hard to keep my hands off him. One look at those sparkling eyes, those red lips, those long delicate fingers, that white skin bordered with inky hair...it was enough to give any vampire a thirst so keen his lips burned. And the fact that Louis was so often unyielding somehow made him all that more tempting (and all that more impossible). The lust for sex simply went hand-in-hand, because in the end it all meant the same thing. I want you. I want to be part of you. Be inside you, under your skin, inside your bones, woven tightly between the spaces in your mind, lost in the depths of your soul. That urgent demanding to become one being, more incoherent and more desperate than anything; and so, in the only ways we can, we draw with a skilful and detailed hand a panting of two beings in each others' veins, in each other's bodies, tangles limbs and thoughts and passions. And like a collage: You, Me, Youme, Meyou, Us, Us, Us.
A dig of a nail, a salty taste in the dip of a collar bone, a rippling spasm of a muscle, an irrepressible whimper.
When I was mortal it was an escape. An addiction like all my other addictions, to wine, to acting, to losing oneself wholly to the moment. If I lived impulsively, if I drew the life from every second, if I acted without consequence and meaning, then Death be damned if he laid a cold finger on me. Death was apathy to Life, Goodness and Excitement were Life, Boredom was Death, Death was Auvergne in the form of yellow-eyed fanged wolves, Life was Paris and Nicolas and sex and theatre and wine and lights and love and love and love.
I've never been one to stick to old rules and tradition, but old habits do die very, very hard.
And now, here we were: Louis had quickened me and abandoned me with a heart pumping fast and the ache of being left untouched.
His small final kiss, that irritating smile, his goddamn hand on my thigh (apologetic or teasing? I wouldn't put either pass him). His taste on my wet lips, the ghost of his weight on my lap, the itch in my hands, the raging heat he left me with, his presence so near yet so, so far away.
Damn him! Damn me for getting so worked up over that bastard! And damn me even more for still thinking of him after he so clearly rejected me, because that's the real problem with lust, the more you try not to think about it, the more you think about it, and the more impatient it grows until your certain you'll explode if you don't tackle the person nearest to you and ravish him to death.
The lights dimmed, the music began, the curtains rose, the second act commenced. The Gods apparently deemed Louis lucky tonight as I wasn't given the chance to further implore him by insulting him until I irritated him enough that he gave in.
I crossed my legs and tapped my shoe against the base of our railing in a steady beat, rewarded with a nice satisfying tick each time. Apparently it was to be the only satisfaction I was going to get for now.
Or not.
My lips curved into a smug smirk. The Louis on stage was making a complete ass of himself. Getting drunk on bourbon, wavering around the stage helplessly like a fish out of water. I laughed and made a show of enjoying his blunderings. Ass.
Louis leaned close to me then and whispered in my ear, “Remind me to feed from a drunk mortal.”
There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice. I knew it well; it honestly took very, very little to get him nostalgic. Everything had a shadow of the past in it when you looked at it under the right light in his eyes. I thought he should stop playing with shadows. This nostalgia however was something I understood. There was something almost sacred about the comfort of alcohol which Louis and I had a mutual nostalgia for. But I was still irritated so I wasn’t really in the mood to humor him.
“Who died in childbirth this time?” I murmured in reply, keeping my eyes on the actors. On stage I had my fangs in his neck.
Now newly vampiric Louis was—well…I can’t help myself—whining. Are we damned, Lestat? Are we from the devil?...What am I?
Morbid, beyond description, my counterpart said. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Except for the fact that I just did. Hm.
So, yes, in a world, life in those times had been…draining. Louis in his existential crisis easy snapping one question about morality right after the other…though, I must admit, watching it on stage made me almost miss it, as strange as that might sound. Back then we fought over the existence of the devil. Now we fight about our plans for the night. It’s a transformation most would kill for, but honestly, there’s very little I love more than assuming a role, getting worked up until I can practically hear my blood pounding, and launching into a yelling-insulting-throwing things-throwing glares-snarling-hissing-scratching-kicking-biting-all out-no mercy until dawn fight. And God knows we had our share of those in the early days. That is, until we called a small truce over Claudia’s dying mortality. Claudia who all too quickly assumed the role of my personal partner in hate. Except Claudia had something on her side Louis did not: Louis had hated my concepts and philosophies, Claudia hated me. I wonder in the end if she knew truly how much she had succeeded in her attempt with the swamp. I doubt it.
Louis and I were sharing a tender moment on stage. He with a small smile on his lips, me with my finger playing absently with the button of his vest. Our foreheads touched for a moment, noses nuzzling briefly. I could almost feel my anger melting into the seat. Oh, to hell with it, I do so hate the inner romantic in me sometimes. But I could sense a storm was coming next and so I decided to take the moment as it was offered to me—I slipped my arm behind Louis to wrap around his waist, not in a beseeching way, but simply in a moment of affection. Partly out of impulse but mostly because…I felt as though I should do something to brace him.
I took a breath. It’s just a musical.
The lights dimmed, glowed again, and a small, pale, sickly child came stumbling across the stage. Too old, of course (though even the slight change of age felt like a bit of a stab), not angelic looking enough, too simple. But I wasn’t going to complain. She advanced towards me, or I towards her. Not Louis, no, it looks like this was a job I was to do on my own this time around (And perhaps that was more appropriate. I wouldn’t know).
Are you an angel? She asked.
I kiss her hands, chanced a glance towards the Heavens, then looked back down at her, devilish smile playing on my lips.
Yes.
The audience laughed. Well, it was humorous, but it wasn’t that funny.
(Was it?).
I took her in my arms, took her blood, gave her mine. Soft music played. Neither of us made more than a small gasp. It was elegant, delicate, almost lovingly. No tale of Louis’ immense grief as his body sang with her blood, no mention of the way she painfully nearly drained me, nothing about the vulgarity or violence or darkness of that night.
And again, maybe that’s just the way it should have been. But I doubt it. It started in blood-spattered birth and ended in ashes, like a twisted phoenix in reverse. Full circle, if you will.
And look, Louis and Claudia, meeting for (apparently) the first time. Will you? Look after me? Of course I will! And that was it. Clean and instantaneous. Love at first sight. With, of course, a little growling in my direction, but that was to be expected. And so I stood at the sidelines as Louis and Claudia shared their moment, father and daughter.
Scene cut. To Louis’ kill. It was more of a dance than anything. Violent, elegant. Merciful Death.
This whole show felt choppy, distorted. Bits and pieces of my life popping up here and there, some altered, some forgotten. But the next bit…well…the next bit I knew by heart. I practically could have sung along had I felt so inclined.
It starts with me calling Claudia’s name. She’s sitting on a bed encircled with dolls. Pink dress, bow in her hair. I advance towards the bed with a doll in hand and sit down on the edge.
Do you love her? I say. She flashes me a false smile. Pretty, she responds. I play with her hair, my little doll.
I was starting to feel extremely self-conscious. I knew the man on stage was not me, I know the girl on stage was certainly not Claudia, but I felt suddenly like everyone was watching me, all the audience, staring at me, glaring at me, accusations in their eyes. I leaned to the side, away from Louis, and rested the side of my face in my palm, curling a blond strand of hair around my finger absently to distract myself.
Claudia, where is your tutor? Gone home. He wouldn’t have gone without his pay, Claudia, where is he? I told you, Lestat! (It’s a hiss, brutal, irreparable. She retracts her anger, turns back to her dolls, smiling sweetly) I told you, he’s gone home.
Of course, he has not gone home. At least, not in the literal sense. He is in her veins, fate of so many in those days. Our little daughter, our little thief of lives. While Louis drank with guilt, she drank with pride, taking this one and that one to soothe her unquenchable thirst. She was most like me in that regard, we were both hunters. I, the Wolfkiller, and she, the Maidkiller, Tutorkiller, Helpkiller. Fatherkiller.
You’re too lenient!
You’re too cold!
She needs to be punished!
She needs love and kindness!
Oh, Louis, Louis. Louis tries to comfort her, tries to save her. He spoils her. He always did. Sure, I had my hand in it to. We both gave her what she wanted. But I had lines she was not allowed to cross and she was to respect that. Didn’t she know what a grand life she had been leading? How much we had given her? I requested boundaries. No feeding on help. She defiantly stepped over them and hid from punishment behind false tears. Louis called me harsh. Harsh? Was I insulting her day in and day out, throwing things and her, disowning her? You had it all, cherie. She needed some discipline. The only problem was, she acted just as I would have in the face of authority. She lashed out. And mon dieu, did everyone of her blows sting. Like two lions trapped in a cage too small, we fought. Sometimes it was obvious, we would yell at one another, hiss, snarl. But most of the time, it was a silent battle, and when she chose her weapon of silence I had difficulty contending. Because, more than anything else, that stung. The coldness, the complete and utter apathy. And she knew it, because it was something she herself wouldn’t have stood for. In those days it was all I could do to taunt her just to get a reaction.
But what the devil did I know? Brat Prince. In the end maybe Louis had been right. He was the survivor, after all. Physically, at least. Emotionally, I knew she had torn him apart worse than she had me. And she had her claws in both of us still.
Perhaps I’m setting this out all too harshly. Perhaps I’m focusing too intently on the ways she wronged me and I wronged her. Don’t get me wrong. She was my child. My daughter. My fledgling. My lover. I did love her dearly, in the first years when we hunted together, when her child’s laughter rang through the house, when she clapped her hands together happily upon receiving a new beautiful dress. I loved her even when she held nothing but spite for me, I loved her when she slashed my throat open and latched on with her own teeth. And as I held her little yellow bloodstained dress, mon dieu, did I love her.
But it couldn’t last. Things that perfect never did.
(A blue curtain came down, the words 30 years later imprinted in gold on the fabric. I chanced a glance at Louis then. My black haired emerald eyed angel of over two hundred years.)
…Did they?
|
|
Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
|
Post by Louis II on Sept 17, 2007 17:40:09 GMT 1
There is Lestat, and there is my Claudia. No, it looked nothing like her. Claudia was more delicate and more like a doll. Claudia was perfect and tiny and so simple to embrace. This girl was older, and taller, and less perfect. But the entire play had led up to this moment. I had not even glanced at the Playbill from sheer nervousness. I didn’t want to see what the actress looked like. I didn’t think I could handle it…and even now, I considered turning around and making a run for it. What would Lestat care? I could just take a stroll around the theatre and come back and maybe, just maybe, it would be over. But…I knew it wouldn’t be. And I knew that I had to stay. I wouldn’t dare make Lestat watch this by himself. Reading about his near-death in my book was bad enough (and I still don’t hear the end of it) but seeing it up on stage, played out, for entertainment purposes rather than informative…that was a whole different vial of blood. “There is no devil!” Lestat kept telling me. I snickered. If he only knew then what he knew now.
Yes, this experience was going to be cleansing, I reasoned, and I continued to reason with myself until the end of my duet with Lestat. My duet…I am saying this as though I physically jumped on stage, grabbed a microphone, and sang. I didn’t, by the way. I did nothing even remotely near that idea. I sat there. I sat there numbly, watching the song as though it was…a Modigliani painting or something. Feeling Lestat’s hand suddenly at the far side of my waist, I took a moment to glance down appraisingly. He HAD wrapped his arm around me. I wasn’t imagining things. Lestat, on stage, held me, on stage, as I curled into his arms, my head against his chest.
He was so protective of me. We sang to one another, and when I sat up, he tenderly touched his forehead to mine. Already, I was seeing through a film of red. I glanced over Lestat’s face for a moment, and took due notice of his expression. It was set, it was firm, and it was also slightly worried. When Lestat is worried, there is only the slightest inkling of change. If you haven’t known him for, oh, say, two hundred years, it’s impossible to notice. But I noticed. His bottom lip tugged up a little, pressing more firmly against the upper, and it caused a little crease in his chin. He looked rather, well, pretty like that, simply because it was a side of him that I didn’t get to see often.
And his fingers dug into my side a little more firmly, too. That’s what, I think, I like the most about Lestat. He protects me from the things from which he believes I need to be protected. He does this even when there’s nothing around. But if there’s the hint of danger…Lestat knows better than anyone not to put trust in the idea that nothing will be wrong. He’s learned that the hard way. Just when you think life is going great, suddenly you get attacked by the devil in a drug lord’s home. Though, I will say, that’s kind of a no-brainer.
Where was I? There was Claudia, and Lestat, but where was I? I was moping about someplace other than there, probably. Well, if that wasn’t a stereotype…Lestat probably thought it was hysterical. I, on the other hand, was not nearly as amused. I was even less amused as I watched Lestat drain my child. Besides, that’s what I had done! It was MY job! It didn’t really seem right for Lestat to be doing it, and for some odd reason, I was horribly offended by it. I almost considered shrugging myself free from Lestat’s physical embrace as a result. But then I remembered…we’d had nothing to do with the production itself. I made a mental recording to leave Anne a nasty note.
And then there was my kill, and the subsequent guilt. That was pretty spot on, and I knew that Lestat concurred by the expression on his face. But there was something that he felt was very off. I could tell. It was as though he was so used to seeing me out of my element…he was so accustomed to my pushing his pleas of watching me hunt aside that it was wrong for him to watch me onstage. But there was also something else there, and that, too, was an expression that I knew as well as my own hand (and we’d spent over two centuries together). It was something akin to lust. Even in a fake setting, Lestat was metaphorically getting his rocks off on watching me feed. I rolled my eyes in near disgust.
And then, there was Claudia. Oh dieu, if I didn’t know this scene by heart. Lestat and I truly adorned her with dolls and frilly dresses, even after she grew old. By the time that she was fifteen years old, we had a collection so great that we plucked out the old ones every so often and stored them in a great chest in the parlor. And when we ran out of space in THAT chest, we bought another one and stored that in a spare bedroom. And once we ran out of space in THAT chest, we merely began to stack the dolls, one on top of the other, in that room itself. When Claudia died, there was a collection of, I’d estimate, three or four thousand.
“You’re too lenient!” “You’re too cold!” “She needs to be punished!” “She needs love, and kindness!” I blinked. I think Lestat and I had had that exact conversation once. I think it ended in me storming out of the room and shutting the door, and Claudia sneaking in to sit in my lap and tell me how Lestat just “didn’t understand.” Well, he didn’t! I mean, not that I was the Parent of the Year or anything (according to the musical and the film, I’d pretty much let my kid die…Why did they have something against Paul?) but I knew enough about children to know that they do not always respond well to anger. That was evidenced rather clearly, I thought, when Lestat ended up at the bottom of a lake. But you know, maybe that’s just the angst and melancholy talking. You never can know with these things.
She’s even lashing out at me now. She takes a pillow as she rails at us both and hits me with it. I’m shocked and a little on the defensive so I blink and hold up my hand in an attempt at deflecting her barrage of swings, before plopping down rather ungracefully at the foot of the bed. She wants more. She always did want more. Even when she was still very young, Claudia knew that something was different about us. Claudia knew that things were strange. And Claudia knew that it just wasn’t proper protocol to drink blood. She loved it during her first few years, but later, grew to resent it. She was first Lestat’s child, and then mine.
By the time the curtain fell and the words 30 YEARS LATER crossed over in trembling letters, my cheeks were stained red. And that’s when it hit me. Lestat and I…had been companions for over two hundred years. I’m not sure why it hit me, and I’m not sure why I hadn’t really considered it that way before. But there we were, on stage, two hundred years previously. Claudia had sung, “You took me from the streets to complete this union.” This union…Well, I supposed…that it was. I rather liked that word, actually, now that I thought about it. Two hundred years was a long time to love someone, but somehow…I did.
Lestat lounging on the bed…Claudia in her dress. Oh dieu, I remembered that dress. Lestat had given it to her, and she had loved it. Well, she had claimed to love it. But I knew that she really wanted one of the shapelier, womanly dresses. She wanted to wear a corset with a lower cut to the dress, so that her breasts would show and perhaps I would love her. I did love her. I considered her so much more than my daughter, and I kissed her frequently. But she was still a child…and that was something that I could not avoidably look past. She hated me for that, and I hated myself. And seeing it all again…nearly cut me to the core. “Can’t you go in there and help her?” “She won’t have it…” No, she wouldn’t have it. She despised it when I made a bit to do about her. She hated when I tried to straighten her dress, or place another bow in her hair. “I can do it myself, Louis,” she would snap, and snatch the ribbon of her dress away from my prying fingers.
“I know you can,” I would tell her, and give her a weak smile. Oh, how I let her walk on me… “But I would like some part in…” “You bought the dress.” That was all that she would give me. I had bought the dress. Well, true, I had. But that served me little good when I wanted to be the one who held her and put her together and fussed over her. She hated to be fussed over. And what did I say on stage? “She doesn’t like to be fussed over.” What did I just say? I was so predictable. And then, in a melancholy way, I added, “She’s not our little doll anymore.” I felt more tears streaming from my cheeks and I was glad I wore black.
“Look at you,” I said onstage, and twirled her. Lestat responded with an apathetic, “You’re adorable.” I cringed and shifted in my seat. That was the worst thing to say. I knew it already before the Claudia onstage responded with, “Adorable?” I could already sense the change in Claudia. She was older. She knew that she was older. There was no way to avoid it now. This was the beginning of her end. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. I couldn’t do it. I knew this story too well, and I knew what would come next. She would betray Lestat, and then I would as well. We would leave for Paris, and we would meet Armand. And then, she would die.
No, I couldn’t watch it. I thought I could be strong. I thought that I would suffer through it for Lestat and his musical. I wanted to give him something completely selflessly for once…but I couldn’t! For the love of God, I couldn’t…Claudia was singing again. I was ignoring her to dance with…some woman. She was flirting mercilessly with me and I was ignoring Claudia! I wanted to shake myself! No, you fool! Go back to her! Embrace her! Forget about the fact that she appears young…she isn’t! Love her, Louis! Before I could stop it, I choked out a single sob. My hand immediately clamped over my mouth to stop more from coming, but all that proved to do was cause my shoulders to shake rather violently. No…no, I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I can’t watch this!
“I have spent so many years in fancy lace and beaded gowns. I have set my hair a hundred ways; my face I’ve painted up and powdered down. This body bears a telling tale. They pinch my cheek and wish me well. For all their patronizing smiles, this frame remains a prison cell…” She watched me dance with this woman. And Lestat was the one who noticed! She was so upset. She was so sad…Did I miss her longing stares? Did she look at me that way while I held the hand of some lady and danced with her? “Imagine walking down the aisle…I’ll never have that chance…” No, Claudia, I would give my life to have given you that chance…I would take it all back even now to give it to you! I love you, Claudia…don’t leave me!
My eyes squeezed shut tightly, my hand still holding firmly over my mouth, and my body hunched over with the little whimpers that escaped through my fingers. I was bleeding now, steadily, from my eyes and I had to get away. I couldn’t watch her die again. I couldn’t watch my casual ambivalence towards her pain. I didn’t know…Claudia, I didn’t know! Without waiting another moment, I shoved out of my seat and it creaked. Stumbling, I walked through the curtains of the box, to the wall beside of them. I couldn’t let someone see me like this…I feared that they would think the worst. Instead, I crumbled against the wall, trickling down until my knees pressed against my chest, and I held them. My head I buried between my knees. I could still hear her…I lifted my hands and crushed them over my ears. Stop singing, Claudia…Stop it!
|
|