"because i don't want to talk
about lestat any longer, louis ! "

i. always lestat
1,934 words.

IT HAD BEEN A HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN YEARS since she turned. Since the night Lucienne Desmarais had become what she now called a monster. And now, in 2022, the weight of those years hung heavy on her shoulders, though her face remained untouched by time. She pressed a soft kiss to her girlfriend's cheek, the coolness of her lips betraying the warmth she tried to convey.

Angelene, her partner of many years—turned only a few years after Lucienne herself—sighed, a tension in her voice. "You don't have to do this," she muttered. "You don't have to go—I could go with you. I should be going with you."

Lucienne's brow furrowed slightly as she zipped up her suitcase with deliberate calm. "You're talking like I'm going off to die, Ange."

"You might," Angelene shot back, her eyes narrowing. "How long's it been since you last saw him? And now he's calling for you? For what, exactly?" Her suspicion was sharp, cutting through the air between them.

Lucienne exhaled softly, turning to cup Angelene's face, her thumb brushing over her cheek as if to soothe. "Your jealousy is showing, love," she said lightly, though it only served to deepen the irritation in Angelene's eyes.

"I don't have much reason to be jealous," Angelene said, her voice steady but cold as her hands moved to encircle Lucienne's wrists. "Lestat was the one keeping you together. And where is he now, huh?" Her words dropped to a whisper, laced with venom. "He's not here, is he?"

The shift in Lucienne's expression was immediate—her face hardening as the mutual annoyance settled between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence thick with unspoken truths.

"You know..." Lucienne pulled her hands away from Angelene's grip, the chill in her voice unmistakable. "Sometimes you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." She turned back to her luggage, gripping the handle with finality. "I'm going. Whether you come or stay is your choice. But I'm leaving."

Angelene rubbed her temple, exasperated. "You always act like this when it comes to him," she muttered under her breath before sighing in defeat. "You know what, I'm coming."

"Good." Lucienne's voice was calm, almost detached, as she glanced over her shoulder. But beneath it all, something stirred—something that Angelene couldn't quite name, and Lucienne couldn't admit.

That's how they always decided things—through bickering, sharp words traded back and forth until the argument dulled the edge of their uncertainty. It wasn't much different now, as they finally made their way to the secluded penthouse of Louis de Pointe du Lac. The one man Lucienne had left behind, years ago, in a life she tried to forget. She couldn't tell if she wanted to see him or if it was the disbelief that he wanted to see her after all this time. He had forgotten her once. She wondered if it would happen again.

Inside, the penthouse was steeped in darkness, the windows vast and hollow, framing the night sky like a distant, unreachable world. Lucienne drifted across the room, her fingers brushing the cool glass as she stared out into the abyss of the city below.

The dim light of the streetlamps flickered faintly against her reflection. Angelene followed closely behind, her presence familiar and grounding. Gently, she took Lucienne's hand, her own fingers cold but comforting.

They had been let inside, but Louis had not yet greeted them. The silence between the two women felt heavy, but Angelene broke it with a soft gesture, resting her head on Lucienne's shoulder and pressing a feather-light kiss to her cheek. "You alright?" she murmured, her voice low and tentative.

Lucienne nodded, though the movement was almost imperceptible. Her mind was elsewhere—lost in the maze of memories she hadn't dared revisit in years. Angelene, sensing her distraction, said nothing more and continued to stare out the window with her, the quiet stretching on until the sound of approaching footsteps reached Lucienne's ears.

"Luci."

The voice, so familiar, yet distant in time, slipped into the room like a whisper from the past. Angelene's face tightened, disappointment flickering across her features. She released Lucienne's hand, stepping back.

Lucienne swallowed, her throat tightening as she turned, slowly, to face him. And there he stood. Louis de Pointe du Lac. He hadn't changed. Not a day over a hundred, still carrying the weight of his centuries like a shroud.

"Lucienne," he said, his voice soft, carrying the weight of all that had been left unsaid. His dark eyes studied her, drinking in the sight of her after so many years apart. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the years between them dissolving into the air.

Lucienne's lips curved into a small, almost wistful smile. She felt a quiet tremor in her chest but masked it well. "Louis," she replied, her voice calm, steady—unchanged, except for the faint shift in her accent, softened and touched by time. More modern now, less tethered to the past they shared.

They stood there, two relics of another world, their unspoken histories hanging heavy between them. In that moment, it was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Angelene cleared her throat, the sound slicing through the heavy air. "Louis," she said, her tone tinged with a practiced disinterest, as if the mere sight of him was beneath her.

   "Angelene." Louis returned her greeting, equally unimpressed, his voice a calm current against the storm of emotions swirling around them. "You're still alive?" The surprise in his voice was palpable, a hint of incredulity lingering as he took in the sight of her.

   "I was wondering the same thing about you." Angelene's smile was sharp, almost mocking.

   Louis sighed, a weary sound that seemed to echo through the dimly lit room. "I asked for Lucienne," he said, his gaze shifting back to her, an intensity burning in his dark eyes.

   "She wanted to come," Lucienne replied, her voice steady and unyielding.

    "Like a pet following its owner," Louis quipped, the words rolling off his tongue with an all-too-familiar cadence. They echoed Angelene's own sentiments from another era, a subtle jab aimed at her.

   "She wanted to come," Lucienne quietly defended, a flicker of irritation crossing her features.

   "Angelene does not get everything she wants," Louis countered, stepping closer, an unspoken challenge in his gaze.

   "Angelene is my girlfriend," Lucienne interjected firmly. "If she wants to come, she will. Because she cares about my wellbeing." Her voice softened, but the conviction remained.

   Louis studied Angelene, his brow furrowing as he realized how much she had changed. She was different from the last time he had seen Lucienne—soft-spoken and composed in a way he had never known her to be. It was disconcerting.

   "Right then," he conceded, his calm facade wavering. Angelene stood her ground, arms crossed defiantly. "I don't plan on doing any damage to you," he assured them, his tone steady. "I just want to talk." He added the last part quickly as if anticipating an interruption.

   Lucienne glanced at Angelene, who appeared almost resolute in her refusal to leave. "It'll only be a few minutes," Lucienne promised, her eyes pleading for understanding.

    "Lucienne," Angelene warned, a note of urgency creeping into her voice.

   "Ange," Lucienne replied softly, the tension lingering in the space between them.

   "I'll be back," Angelene said, the firmness of her words leaving no room for argument. "You have a timer." With that, she followed the 'assistant' out of the room, leaving Lucienne and Louis alone.

   As the door clicked shut behind them, Louis took a step forward, but Lucienne instinctively stepped back, the distance between them a reminder of the years gone by. "We're better off sitting," she said, a sudden burst of resolve guiding her past him. She moved swiftly to the sofa, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of emotions that surrounded them.

   The space between them felt charged as if the air itself held its breath in anticipation of what was to come. Lucienne settled into the cushions, her heart racing with the weight of the moment, her mind racing through memories both cherished and painful. Louis hesitated, caught between the past and the present, the unspoken words clinging to them like shadows.

   Louis settled onto the plush sofa opposite her, his gaze fixed intently. "How have you been?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to pierce through the years of distance that lay between them.

"Well," Lucienne replied, her nod measured, her calm exterior belying the tumult within.

He exhaled slowly. "You've made it official with... Angelene." The words dripped with a disappointment that hung in the air, thick and heavy.

Lucienne met his gaze evenly. "And you're living... in a penthouse." The words rolled off her tongue, as cool as the moonlight that streamed through the windows.

"I wouldn't be shocked if you were as well," he replied, a hint of bitterness coloring his tone.

"I could... but Ange isn't a penthouse person." She shook her head lightly, the movement graceful yet definitive. Louis nodded, watching her, noting how remarkably calm she appeared—like still waters hiding a storm beneath.

Finally, impatience broke the stillness. "Why have you asked me here? You haven't needed me in so long. What is it that you want now?"

Louis leaned back, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his shoulders. "I didn't ask you here just to talk," he began, his voice low and careful. "But with an interviewer." The name escaped him, laced with an unspoken burden. "Dan—"

"No." The word sliced through the air, her soft demeanor vanishing in an instant. She stood, the calmness replaced by the fire of her old self. "So you've lied to me."

"Lucienne," he implored, rising quickly, desperation threading through his tone.

"No. You knew if you called, I would come running back because I still care," she retorted, anger sparking in her eyes. "Hell, you made it sound like we'd hug things out and move on. But you want me to do another interview—"

"Lucienne." His voice raised, a mix of frustration and urgency.

"About Lestat!" She shouted, her voice rising, escalating with each word. "Lestat, Lestat, always Lestat."

"Why are you so upset right now?" Louis countered, bewildered by the sudden shift.

"Because I don't want to talk about Lestat any longer, Louis! I don't want to see him, I don't want to breathe the same air as him! I don't want—" Her voice trailed off as a familiar, unwelcome sensation crept in. Blood began to drip from her nose, a crimson reminder of the tension boiling over.

Instinctively, she grasped her face, tilting her head back to stem the flow. Louis's expression morphed from confusion to concern.

"Could you please go get Ange?" she grumbled, her frustration mingling with vulnerability, the remnants of her earlier bravado slipping away like shadows at dawn.

⛧

   She sat serenely on the sofa, a calm that belied the tempest of her thoughts. The bleeding had ceased, and Angelene was now beside her, her warm hand resting on Lucienne's knee, a silent anchor in the shifting tides of tension. "After this, it has to stop," Angelene said, her voice steady yet cautious as she turned to Louis. "If I agree to this—no more. No more interviews. No more Lestat."

Louis regarded them, his hands interlaced in his lap, an air of composed resignation about him. He nodded slowly, a semblance of understanding flickering in his eyes. "Alright," he replied, but paused, sensing her eagerness to elaborate.

"We'll lose contact," Lucienne continued, her voice wavering slightly as she sought Angelene's reassuring gaze. Angelene nodded, affirming the decision. Louis's expression remained inscrutable, but a shadow of disappointment crossed his features as his eyes shifted between them, lingering on Angelene, who wore a look of quiet satisfaction. "Officially," she added, the finality of her words hanging in the air.

They had traversed this path before, each time fraught with arguments and broken promises. The last time they had fallen into this dance of separation, years had passed in silence—far longer than a mere few months. Now, Lucienne was resolute, not solely for her own sake, but for Angelene's. It felt as though she were committing emotional treason, and the weight of the past threatened to suffocate her.

"That's what you want?" Louis asked, his voice low, laced with an undercurrent of regret.

"Yes," she replied, her conviction hardening.

"Alright." He nodded once more, the acceptance settling heavily between them. "He'll be here by the end of the week." Rising slowly, he turned, his presence retreating into the shadows of the penthouse. "You know where you reside. Have a good night." His tone was dull, a husk of the emotion that once colored their interactions, leaving the two women alone in the silence that followed.

⛧

The week had passed in a blur, time slipping away too quickly for Lucienne to catch her breath. Now, living under the same roof as Louis once again, she was uncertain—adrift in the sea of memories, emotions dulled by the weight of it all. Most days, she holed up in her room, avoiding him at every turn, preferring the quiet company of Angelene. Dinner was a solitary affair, shared only with Angelene, who understood the complexities of the situation without question.

And just as promised, by week's end, Lucienne found herself standing in that familiar room with Louis—and Daniel, the journalist. Her eyes narrowed as they fixated on the human, listening to his words with a mix of disdain and detachment.

Lucienne didn't engage much in their conversation at first, her attention drifting away as Louis and Daniel rekindled whatever frayed thread of connection had once tethered them. She picked up the essentials: they had a history, and Daniel was suffering from Parkinson's disease. The rest felt like static—uninteresting until something shifted.

"And you've brought her." Daniel's voice pulled her from her silent reverie. Lucienne finally moved, slipping from the wall where she'd been lingering like a ghost. She walked with unhurried grace, taking a seat on the nearby couch, close enough to be seen but far enough to remain detached. Her eyes locked onto Daniel's with a calm intensity, unnervingly quiet. The human shifted in his seat, visibly unsettled by the weight of her silence, though he tried to mask it.

"Why again? What's changed?" Daniel asked, his voice dipping with uncertainty.

"The world," Louis answered simply, his tone carrying the kind of weight that only a century of time could produce. "Circumstances."

He rose from his seat, crossing the room to sit beside Lucienne, their presence now mirrored on the couch—two statues carved from the same cold stone, their faces betraying only slight differences in expression. "Me, I've changed," Louis continued, "and so has she. The tapes you have are incomplete. You've yet to hear her voice, her side of things. And, frankly, I find the story lacking without it."

Daniel glanced down, fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard. "So...a do-over?"

"Truth and reconciliation," Louis murmured, just as the faint beep of Daniel's device cut through the air.

"I ask the questions. You both answer," Daniel clarified, his tone firm. "Anything that can't be verified, I'll send to my researcher."

From the corner of the room, the man standing behind them rose, a figure of interruption. Lucienne exhaled softly, her patience wearing thin. She rolled her eyes at the predictable intrusion.

"No third parties," the man insisted.

Daniel barely acknowledged him. "I write it. You get to see it before it goes to print. I get the final edit."

"That is not the agreement you signed," the man snapped.

"One more thing," Daniel said, pulling off his glasses as if to punctuate his point. "I do my best work one-on-one, with the people I'm actually talking to." His gaze shifted sharply toward the man, making his frustration known.

Louis remained unflustered, his tone smooth as ever. "Would you see to Mr. Molloy's room?" He glanced at Daniel. "Have the chef prepare a meal for him. I think it best we begin after our boys had some rest."

"I'm not your fucking boy," Daniel snapped, his irritation flaring.

Lucienne's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Jumpy," she muttered under her breath, amusement flickering in her voice as she leaned back, her calm facade returning as quickly as it had slipped.

Daniel didn't miss a beat. "I'm an old man with all the triggers that come with it." He ran a hand across his face, the weight of age apparent in his every movement. "But I'm ready. So, let's do this."

Lucienne tilted her head, eyes following him with a kind of distant curiosity. "I think I like him," she whispered, a quiet chuckle slipping through as she played with the edge of her sleeve. It wasn't admiration—just a soft approval of his refusal to bow under Louis's presence. Few men dared.

Daniel straightened, taking a breath before beginning. "I'm Daniel Molloy." He glanced at his watch. "It is 10:08 in the morning on June 14, 2022. I'm in the penthouse apartment of the Al Sharaf Towers across from Mr..." He paused, turning to Louis expectantly.

"Louis de Pointe du Lac," Louis answered, his voice velvety smooth.

"And Ms..." Daniel's gaze turned to Lucienne, who had remained quiet, observing.

She met his eyes, her voice soft but firm. "Lucienne Desmarais."

"So," Daniel said, exhaling, "Mr. du Lac, Ms. Desmarais, how long have you both been dead?"

Louis chuckled softly, a dark amusement filling the room.

⛧

authors note: hi guys. omg i'm so excited to read this. i've been obsessed with the show since like 2 weeks ago. im still thinking about how i'll kind of narrate. like idk how ill narrate like will it be most their pov's of the past or present idk yet. still thinking about it. if you have a preference like lmk.

like do i do, 'just a bit sane' lucienne in 1910 first or 'borderline psychopath who's mentally disturbed' lucienne of 2022

but anyways i hope u cuties enjoyed <3