devilsfool:

“So what if we had to sleep on lumpy pallets, and the neighbors woke us up with fighting.” -Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

Was it the first night? The second? Third? It had all been a whirlwind to me, the excitement of arriving in Paris, the world suddenly such a different place from where I’d spent the last 21 years. People everywhere, the stench of shit and piss in the streets, the sounds of horses and church bells and music everywhere. How I loved it. 

We’d rented a tiny room at the top floor of a building–one bed, two windows, a shelf and a basin in which to wash. Such a small space! Such heaven to me, such cramped and glorious beauty. 

The first night we’d made wild, happy love, tumbling into the lumpy, uncomfortable bed twisted and entwined and endlessly delighted in each other. The bells of a church chimed the hour in the distance, the moonlight spilling into the little window and onto the floor of the flat. I remember this image as I drifted off to sleep, a strange thought coming to me that I hoped my mother was okay, that she was becoming well again, perhaps. 

It was maybe an hour later that I was roused, abruptly, by shouts. The wall above our head thudded as something hit it–something heavy. 

“Nicolas–” I shook him, then, his eyes snapping open. 

“What is it? What the hell–?” He sat up, nearly conking heads with me, both of us turned to face the wall behind the headboard. 

The screaming continued, followed by the shattering of glass. I know my eyes widened, then–I’d experienced plenty of abuse and yelling in my years, yes, but never had I been privy to the violent fighting of complete strangers, not in such an intimate way. I’d grown up in a damn castle, for God’s sake–the walls were thick and the place devoured sound. 

Then Nicolas began to laugh. 

I snapped my eyes to his, “How can you laugh? It’s terrible!”

He fell back against the bedclothes, snatching my pillow as he laughed and throwing it at me. 

“Welcome to Paris, Lestat.”