Chapter Text
The snow had stopped before sunset. Now the world beyond the castle windows lay silent beneath the moon, buried beneath white and silver. Frost climbed the glass in delicate patterns. The gardens had disappeared entirely. Lestat hated winter. He always had. Louis loved it. The irony was unbearable. A log shifted in the fireplace. The crack echoed through the bedchamber. No one spoke. The servants moved quietly these days. They drifted in and out with lowered eyes and careful feet, carrying fresh water and untouched meals. They whispered outside the doors. As though death might hear them. As though it needed directions.
Lestat sat beside the bed. He had not left in four days. His coat lay discarded across a chair. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair hung loose around his shoulders. To anyone else he might have appeared exhausted. But vampires did not tire. Not truly. This was something worse. The exhaustion of helplessness. The exhaustion of watching. The exhaustion of waiting for a thing he could neither stop nor survive. A hand touched his. Weakly. Lestat's attention snapped immediately back to the bed. Louis was awake. The fever had hollowed him. There was no gentler way to think it. His cheekbones seemed sharper now. His skin carried the translucence of candle wax. Dark curls clung to his forehead. Yet somehow he remained beautiful. Not despite death. In defiance of it. Lestat hated that too.
"You're staring." His voice emerged rough and frayed. The words barely reached the edge of the mattress. Lestat leaned closer immediately. "I am." Louis's mouth twitched. A poor imitation of a smile. "Rude." Lestat swallowed. For a moment he could only look at him. He remembered another night. Years ago. Louis laughing as he adjusted a cravat before a mirror. Complaining that Lestat watched him constantly. "How can I help it?" "You could try." "Impossible." "Why?" "Because every time I look away I miss something beautiful." Louis had rolled his eyes. Lestat had spent the next hour kissing him. The memory struck with such force that he nearly looked away. Nearly. Instead he lifted Louis's hand and pressed his lips against the knuckles. Cold. Far too cold. Even through the fever. Louis watched him quietly. As though he knew exactly what memory had surfaced. As though he remembered it too.
"Tell me something." Lestat closed his eyes briefly. Anything. Anything except goodbye. "Of course." Louis looked towards the window. Towards the moonlit snow. Towards a world he would soon leave behind. "When spring comes..." His voice faltered. He swallowed. Tried again. "When spring comes, you should open the south gardens." Lestat stared. "What?" "The roses." A weak breath escaped him. "The white ones." The words carried effort now. Every sentence demanded payment. "They'll bloom." Lestat felt something twist violently inside his chest. The white roses. Louis's favourite. He had planted them himself. Spent an entire afternoon kneeling in the dirt despite being a nobleman and having no business doing such work. Lestat remembered complaining. Louis remembered ignoring him. The roses had survived every winter since. "You can tell me yourself." Louis's eyes closed briefly. Not agreement. Not surrender. Simply exhaustion.
When they opened again there was sadness in them. The sort of sadness reserved for people forced to witness another person's denial. "My love." The words barely existed. Lestat looked away immediately. The moon. The snow. The fireplace. Anything. Anything except pity. Anything except acceptance.
He heard the uneven rhythm of Louis's breathing. The subtle wheeze beneath it. The sound had become familiar. He despised himself for recognising it. Despised himself for noticing every small change. Every sign. Every worsening symptom. As though cataloguing them might somehow grant him control. The physicians called it a wasting sickness. An infection of the lungs. A fever. A hundred names for the same thing. None of them mattered. The truth remained unchanged. Louis was dying. And Lestat could do nothing. A sharp crack split the silence. For one irrational moment he thought something had happened. Thought Louis had stopped breathing. Thought— The fireplace. Only the fireplace. A log collapsing inward.
Lestat exhaled slowly. His hands trembled. A vampire's hands. Trembling. The absurdity of it might have been funny under different circumstances. Louis was watching him again. Always watching. Always understanding. Even now. Especially now. "Lestat." A whisper. Barely audible. Yet Lestat heard it as clearly as a scream. "Yes?" "I need you to promise me something." No. The answer rose immediately. No promises. No final wishes. No last requests. No conversations that sounded like endings. "No." Louis blinked. Then laughed. Or tried to. The sound dissolved into a fit of coughing. Lestat was beside him instantly. One hand supporting his shoulders. The other cradling the back of his head. The coughing grew worse. Violent. Painful. Endless. Louis bent forward. A wet sound tore from his chest. Then blood spilled across his lips. Bright. Red. Too much. Far too much. For one horrible second neither of them moved. Lestat stared. Louis stared. The blood dripped onto white sheets. Crimson blooming against ivory.
A flower opening. A wound made visible. Lestat's stomach dropped.
No. No. No. Not yet. Not like this. Louis lifted shaking fingers towards his mouth. Looked at the blood. Then at Lestat. And suddenly Lestat saw it. Not fear. Not pain. Recognition. Louis knew. Knew exactly what this meant. Knew the same thing Lestat knew.
The end had finally arrived. And for the first time in four days, Louis looked afraid.