Letters. Letters from everyone I have loved, of course, and I have many of them stored in a metal strongbox under the bed: Gabrielle, David, Armand, Marius, etc. Words scratched onto paper where no one can take them back, no one can accuse me of making them up or exaggerating the words uttered.
-pause-
But the real objet d’obsession?
There is a box that is…hidden from me, tucked under a floorboard in the office (remember, that room once was Louis’ bedroom). In it are letters to me from Louis. Written over a century ago, on parchment that might crumple in your hand had it not been sealed in a box for so long. His beautiful copperplate hand, neat as his tutors intended it to be, writing words meant for me. Letters never sent, if you will, letters I’m not meant to know exist. Love letters, letters written in a blind rage, sensual confessions, everyday observations.
I’m waiting for the night he chooses to share them with me, but I know it might never come. Does he even remember that they are there? It may be that he thinks them burned long ago–though if Claudia’s diary might survive, why not these?
When we’ve had a particularly cruel argument, when we’ve crawled our way to Hell and back again, when we’ve clawed each other down to the quick, I go and dig them out again. His centuries-old innocence is a balm to my heart.
-shrugs-
It’s stupid, and he’d be furious if he knew. He’d not speak to me for months, frankly, and I’d deserve it.
…But I do treasure them, especially when his voice feels far away to me, or when we are separated. There, contained in parchment, is the person Louis once was: a young man who was furious and confused and sometimes in love. And I’m so happy that he still exists, even if it’s only in a box under the floorboards.
god, yes, Daniel who has at this point never stopped to even consider how the passing of trends could impact in his life/afterlife, and Armand who thinks he has grasped the importance of the difference between timeless and The Worst by now. thank you for giving me the excuse to draw mullet Daniel again
//Consider: 21st century Louis and Lestat going to Ikea to furnish their apartment. They can’t agree on anything and spend most of the precious few hours between sundown and closing time arguing because Lestat wants to buy every modern and flashy item in the store while Louis just wants a simple armchair to sit and read his books in peace but oh my god Louis look there’s an egg-shaped chair that spins and it even has a canopy over it! Lestat then actually tries to fit himself into this child-sized chair while Louis proceeds to have a migraine. Lestat drags Louis, who just wants to sit down for one goddamned second, along through the entire labyrinthine place, exclaiming over every colorful, avant-garde object. Louis is certain he’s seen that hideous bookshelf four times already and it’s either following them or he’s actually losing his mind. Lestat has gone starry-eyed currently surrounded by a collection of amorphous accent pieces which are beginning to look positively ominous. Somewhere along the line they pass a vaguely phallic-shaped rug which just adds to the feeling that they’ve entered some sort of cursed liminal space and nothing really feels real anymore and thank god or whatever powers exist when they finally get kicked out at closing time before they actually become trapped here by some unknowable force of madness.
“I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.” – John Keats
–
Louis and Lestat. I doubt there were many quiet moments like this because Lestat is Lestat and does not have an inside voice, but I’m sure Louis appreciates them all the more for their rarity. I always imagine Louis to be fond of bundling up in thick blankets while Lestat wants one thin sheet or nothing at all. When they snuggle outside of their coffins, that is.
“Lis. That’s what Lestat calls me. French for lily. I didn’t like it at first. I remember the first time he called me that, I got upset. I thought it was condescending of him. I’m not his delicate little flower, I used to think. But it wasn’t something he just threw around, I began to notice. He used it rather sparingly, only saying it when he spoke softly and genuinely. And I came to love it. He didn’t use it for anyone else. See, he would use other french terms when trying to get a meal out of someone. He would seduce them, calling them mon coeur, and mon amour. But lis was reserved for me. No one had done that for me before. No one had ever called me anything but Louis. And so I grew to love it. And I still do love it. He still calls me lis when he wants my undivided attention, or when he wants to calm me down. It’s become one of my favorite words, and nothing sounds better than hearing it whispered in his voice. His lily.”
I-want-my-IWTV 