Chapter 4
The texts started almost immediately after lunch. At first, they were simple and light:
Lestat: I believe you owe me for sharing my brilliance over sandwiches.
Lestat: Also, remind me to find out where Claudia gets her fruit salad. Surprisingly good.
Louis had smirked faintly when the first one came through, shaking his head as he reread it before tucking his phone back into his pocket.
By the next day, the texts grew more playful:
Lestat: I walked past a jazz club today that had a sign advertising “Free Soul.” I’m curious—how much do you think a soul normally costs?
Lestat: Just had the most extraordinary coffee. It almost made me cry. You should come with me next time. Or was the coffee better because you weren’t there to distract me?
Louis couldn’t help but feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward when he read them, though he never responded immediately. He would draft replies, erase them, and eventually send something simple.
Louis: Sounds overpriced for jazz.
Louis: Coffee doesn’t make me cry. Maybe you’re just dramatic.
Lestat would reply almost instantly, his wit sharp and persistent:
Lestat: Mon cher, I’m the least dramatic person I know.
Despite himself, Louis found himself waiting for the messages each day. He didn’t want to admit how much he looked forward to them—how they punctuated the monotony of his day, pulling him out of his head for just a moment.
The office hummed with the quiet chaos of phones ringing and hushed conversations. A faint scent of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the crispness of newly printed paper. Louis slipped through the doorway, his dark coat draped over one arm, his other hand clutching a leather briefcase. His colleagues offered polite nods or distracted greetings, but Louis kept his focus straight ahead, his stride purposeful yet unhurried.
When he reached his desk, a manila folder sat waiting for him, the tab neatly labeled: Property Inheritance Dispute. He set his briefcase down, his fingers brushing over the edge of the folder before he flipped it open.
Inside was a tangle of documents—deeds, affidavits, notes from his client scribbled in the margins. His eyes scanned the details, absorbing the mess of a case he’d been handed. “This is going to take days to unravel,” he thought grimly, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“Morning, big guy,” Sam’s voice cut through the background noise. His colleague leaned against the edge of Louis’ desk, holding a mug emblazoned with #1 Lawyer.
“Big case?” Sam asked, peering at the folder with faint curiosity.
Louis glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Complicated case,” he corrected, turning back to the papers.
Sam chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “They always give you the fun ones. Guess they like watching you work miracles.”
Louis hummed softly in response, his attention drifting to a particularly contentious clause in the documents. Sam lingered for another moment before retreating with a casual, “Don’t work too hard.”
Before Louis could fully return to his work, Sam suddenly turned back, his expression slightly more serious. “Hey, just a heads-up—Armand’s been looking for you. Said he wanted to talk. He was hovering by the conference rooms earlier.”
Louis’ pen stilled in his hand, though his expression didn’t betray much. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
Sam hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Just… be careful, alright? The way he looks at you sometimes—it’s intense. Makes me uncomfortable, and it’s not even directed at me.”
Louis exhaled softly, nodding in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I noticed too. Thanks, I’ll handle it,” he said simply, though his voice carried a weight of resignation.
Sam nodded, giving him a brief pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Louis alone with the case file and a faint sense of unease creeping into his thoughts.
The day passed in a blur of meetings and document reviews, Louis immersing himself in the intricacies of the case to keep his mind occupied. By the time he finally packed up to leave, the sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the office floor.
He shrugged on his coat, slinging his briefcase over one shoulder as he made his way to the exit. But just as he reached the door, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Louis.”
Armand’s smooth, deliberate tone sent a ripple of unease through him. Louis turned slowly, his expression carefully neutral as he met the other man’s gaze.
Armand stood a few feet away, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit. His dark eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Louis’ stomach tighten.
“I was hoping to catch you before you left,” Armand said, stepping closer.
Louis adjusted his briefcase slightly, his posture straightening instinctively. “What can I do for you?” he asked evenly, his tone polite but distant.
Armand’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Always so formal,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle edge of amusement. “I wanted to tell you… your work on the Callahan case was extraordinary. You have a way of seeing things others miss.”
Louis inclined his head slightly, though he didn’t respond.
Armand took another step closer, his gaze lingering on Louis’ face. “Your eyes,” he said softly, his tone almost reverent. “They’re so unique—the way they seem to cut through everything, to see the truth. It’s… remarkable.”
Louis’ chest tightened, his fingers clenching slightly around the strap of his briefcase. He forced himself to hold Armand’s gaze, though every fiber of his being wanted to step back.
“You’re… remarkable, Louis,” Armand continued, his voice dipping lower. “In every way. I hope you know that.”
Louis swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, his voice lacking warmth.
Armand’s smile widened slightly, the intensity in his eyes deepening. “You’re far too modest,” he said, his tone almost a whisper now. “I hope one day you’ll let someone see you the way you see the world.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge, their weight pressing against Louis’ chest. He managed a curt nod, stepping toward the door with purpose. “If that’s all, I have somewhere to be,” he said, his voice firmer now.
Armand watched him for a moment longer, his gaze unyielding. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he stepped aside. “Of course. Have a good evening, Louis.”
As Louis stepped out into the cool evening air, his shoulders sagged slightly, the tension in his body lingering like a dull ache. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the crisp night air as he made his way to his car.
He shook the thoughts away as he climbed into his car, gripping the steering wheel tightly. His family’s house wasn’t far, but the prospect of enduring dinner with Paul’s judgment and Mamaw’s expectations only added to his frustration.
The familiar rhythm of the road calmed him slightly as he drove, but the image of Armand’s piercing gaze lingered in the back of his mind, a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.
The warm glow of the porch light bathed Mamaw’s house in a soft, golden hue as Louis pulled into the driveway. He turned off the engine, gripping the steering wheel as he sat in the quiet of his car for a moment longer than necessary. The distant hum of cicadas filled the air, their rhythmic song grounding him as he prepared for the evening ahead.
“Get it together, Louis,” he thought, closing his eyes briefly and exhaling a slow, measured breath. He looked at the house from within the safety of his car, the light from the windows casting faint shadows on the porch. Inside, a familiar war awaited him. He was prepping for Mamaw’s inevitable requests for money, Paul’s pointed jabs about his lack of church attendance, and, most likely, Grace’s mention of seeing him with Lestat.
“I wonder if I’ll get a perfect score tonight,” he mused bitterly, running a hand over his face.
Inside, the smell of fried chicken and rice greeted him, rich and comforting, though it didn’t settle the knot in his stomach. The sound of overlapping voices spilled from the dining room, punctuated by the clatter of dishes and the sharp bark of laughter.
“Louis!” Mamaw’s voice called from the kitchen. “You’re late.”
“I had work,” he replied as he stepped inside, hanging his coat on the rack by the door.
“You always have work,” Paul muttered leaning casually against the doorway. His arms were crossed, his posture lazy but his tone sharp. “But you’ve got time for meeting up with friends, not family, huh?”
Louis froze briefly, his jaw tightening. Check. “What are you talking about?”
“Grace saw you,” Paul said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She said you were out with a friend. Looked real close, apparently.”
Louis mentally ticked off the box. “Grace’s observations, another check.” He forced his expression to remain neutral, though his stomach churned at the smugness in Paul’s tone.
Grace was absent tonight—her kids had a school event—but it was almost worse without her there. Without her quieter tone to balance Paul’s brashness, the evening felt more like an ambush.
“It was nothing, just a college friend,” Louis said evenly, brushing past Paul and into the dining room.
Mamaw bustled into the room moments later, carrying a platter of chicken. She set it down on the table with a practiced ease, her sharp eyes landing on Louis as she spoke. “Louis, I never hear from you anymore. You really should come to church more, like Paul and Grace,” she said, her tone brisk but firm. “And I still need help with the roof—it’s going to cost more than I thought. Maybe we can discuss the details after dinner.”
Check and check. Louis sat down, the scrape of the chair against the floor louder than he intended. “I’ll handle it,” he replied quietly, pulling his plate closer out of habit rather than hunger.
Paul snorted softly, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. “Always the fixer, huh? But maybe if you spent less time with your… college friends, you said? You’d have more to spare for God.”
The jab landed harder than Louis cared to admit. His grip on the fork tightened, the edge of the utensil digging into his palm. He didn’t look up, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “I’m managing fine, thanks Paul.”
Paul sat down across from him, clasping his hands together in a show of false humility. “We had such a powerful sermon this week,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of self-importance. “Pastor read from Proverbs. You know the one: ‘The way of the wicked is like darkness; they do not know over what they stumble.’”
Louis stilled, his jaw tightening slightly. Paul continued, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s a good reminder, don’t you think? How easy it is to lose your way when you aren’t walking the right path. Or have others influencing your path.”
Mamaw chimed in as she passed a plate of rice. “That’s true, Paul. We all need guidance to stay on the right path. That’s why church is so important.” She turned to Louis, her gaze pointed. “It would do you good to come more often, Louis. Family and God come first. Don’t forget that. When you were young, I had all three of you with me each Sunday. Mmm, Louis, I worry about you.”
Louis pressed his lips together, keeping his expression neutral as he served himself a small portion. The weight of their expectations pressed down on him, suffocating in its familiarity.
Paul wasn’t finished. “The gospel reading was from Luke,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “‘For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’” He paused, his dark eyes locking on Louis. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? About where your priorities are?”
Louis met his brother’s gaze evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “It does,” he said simply, his voice calm but clipped.
Paul leaned back with a self-satisfied smile, turning his attention to Mamaw. “I told you, Ma. He’ll get there eventually. Just needs a little… encouragement.”
When Mamaw brought up the roof repairs the second time that night, Louis nodded automatically, the words barely registering. He could feel the knot in his chest tightening with every passing minute, the weight of their scrutiny pressing against him like a vice.
Dinner dragged on, the weight of the evening pressing heavily against Louis’ chest. Paul’s voice dominated the conversation, his remarks cutting and loaded with thinly veiled judgment. Mamaw chimed in every so often, her tone brisk but carrying that familiar undercurrent of disappointment.
Louis sat quietly, his plate mostly untouched, his fork idly tracing the edge of his food. His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick forward in an agonizingly slow rhythm.
“I need to leave,” he thought, the words circling in his mind like a mantra.
Paul was still talking—something about the upcoming church fundraiser—and Mamaw was nodding along, adding her own comments about the importance of community. Louis’ pulse quickened, his need for escape becoming almost unbearable.
He glanced toward the kitchen, his sharp eyes catching the back door partially ajar, left open just enough to let in the faint hum of cicadas. His heart gave a small leap at the sight—a potential way out.
“Louis,” Mamaw said suddenly, her sharp tone snapping his attention back to the table. “Are you even listening?”
“Yes,” he replied quickly, though the word felt hollow. He picked up his glass of water, taking a slow sip as his mind raced.
Paul smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You should pay attention, Louis. This affects the whole family, you know. There was a young girl I think you should meet with at mass this last week.”
Louis nodded faintly, his eyes drifting to the back door again. The voices around him became a distant hum, the room blurring slightly as he focused on his plan. He waited for the right moment—when Mamaw stood to fetch dessert and Paul launched into another of his self-important monologues.
As Mamaw’s footsteps faded into the kitchen and Paul gestured animatedly with his fork, Louis slid his chair back with deliberate slowness. The sound barely registered over Paul’s voice, and Louis moved carefully, his steps soft as he edged toward the kitchen.
The back door beckoned him, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he slipped through the opening. He exhaled quietly, his chest loosening for the first time that evening as he let the door click shut behind him.
The yard was bathed in moonlight, the faint glow casting long shadows across the grass. Louis walked quickly, his footsteps muted against the soft earth. When he reached his car, he got in quickly.
When he reached the door of the bookstore, Louis unlocked it quickly, stepping inside and flicking on a single lamp. The soft glow illuminated the rows of shelves, casting long shadows across the walls. The smell of aged paper greeted him, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
He moved behind the counter, his fingers brushing against the worn wood as he exhaled slowly. The weight of the evening still lingered, pressing against his chest, heavy and unshakable.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. He hesitated before pulling it out, the screen lighting up with Lestat’s name.
Louis stared at the name for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. His chest tightened briefly, though he couldn’t pinpoint whether it was hesitation or anticipation. Finally, he swiped to answer.
“Lestat,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
“Louis,” Lestat replied, his tone warm and light. “Did I catch you brooding? I wouldn’t want to interrupt a truly dramatic moment.”
Louis huffed softly, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his otherwise serious expression. “No brooding,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.
“Ah, mon ami,” Lestat said with a teasing lilt, “your voice is far too serious for someone not brooding. Let me guess—you’re standing in some dimly lit corner, arms crossed, staring pensively at a wall of books.”
Louis glanced at the shelves surrounding him, his lips twitching despite himself. “Close,” he admitted, leaning lightly against the counter.
Lestat chuckled, his laugh rich and melodic. “And they call me dramatic.”
“What do you want, Lestat?” Louis asked, though his tone wasn’t as guarded as usual.
“Well, I was thinking…” Lestat began, his voice turning sly. “It’s far too nice a night to spend alone. Why don’t you join me? Unless, of course, you’re planning to spend your evening alphabetizing the tragedies.”
Louis’ brow furrowed, though the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. “For what?” he asked, his tone laced with faint curiosity.
“A little food, a little conversation,” Lestat replied smoothly. “Perhaps even a little distraction. And no, before you ask—I’m not planning to kidnap you.” He paused dramatically before adding, “Unless you’d like that sort of thing.”
Louis sighed, shaking his head, though the faint smile remained. “You’re ridiculous.”
“C’est vrai,” Lestat said, his tone unapologetic. “But surely you could use a bit of ridiculousness
Tell me, Louis, is there a rule against smiling on weeknights? Or is it a personal code of yours?”
Louis ran a hand over the counter, his fingers brushing against the wood as he debated. “How does he always manage to make me feel seen?”
After a beat, Louis exhaled softly. “Alright,” he said, his voice quieter but steady. “Where do you have in mind?”
“Ah, leave that to me,” Lestat said, his voice taking on a playful edge. “I’ll text you the address. Something charming, intimate, perfect for making even the grumpiest of men relax.”
Louis rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t fight the faint warmth spreading in his chest. “Just send it,” he said, hanging up before Lestat could say anything else.
He stared at the phone for a moment longer than necessary, his mind still caught on Lestat’s teasing tone and the effortless way he had disarmed him. A notification buzzed seconds later, the name of a small bistro appearing on his screen. Louis pocketed his phone and let out a soft huff of amusement. “What am I doing?”
But even as he asked himself the question, a flicker of excitement stirred beneath the exhaustion.
The address Lestat sent led Louis to a quiet street tucked away from the bustling heart of New Orleans. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, their glow softening the rough edges of the old cobblestone road. Louis parked his car at the corner, his gaze scanning the narrow alley Lestat’s directions had pointed him toward.
“Of course, it’s in some hidden alley,” Louis thought, his brow furrowing slightly. “This has Lestat written all over it.”
He walked cautiously, the faint hum of jazz music drifting toward him as he turned the corner. Ahead, a single lantern glowed beside an unassuming iron door, its surface aged and slightly weathered. Above it, a simple wooden sign read, La Lanterne Obscure.
The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, revealing a cozy, dimly lit space that felt like stepping into another century. The bistro was small, its walls lined with exposed brick and faded photographs. Mismatched chairs surrounded tables draped with crisp white linens, and candlelight flickered softly in glass holders, casting a warm glow over the room. The faint scent of herbs and freshly baked bread filled the air.
At the far end of the room, Lestat stood near the bar, his posture relaxed but impossibly poised. He was dressed impeccably, as always, his tailored jacket hugging his frame and his golden hair catching the candlelight like a halo. He turned as Louis entered, his face lighting up with a smile that felt almost too genuine.
“Ah, there you are,” Lestat said, his voice carrying easily over the soft jazz playing in the background. He gestured for Louis to join him. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to stand me up.”
Louis approached, his hands slipping into his pockets. “I almost did,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words.
Lestat placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Mon Dieu, you wound me already,” he teased. “Come, sit. This place is a treasure, and I thought of no one better to share it with.”
Louis raised an eyebrow as he glanced around the room. “How did you even find this place?” he asked, his voice low but curious.
Lestat’s smile widened, a playful glint in his pale blue eyes. “It’s not the kind of place you find—it finds you. It’s word of mouth only, a tradition passed down through whispers and the occasional dare. The owner, Madame Beaulieu, has been running it for decades, though rumor has it the recipes come from her grandmother, who was a chef for French aristocrats.”
Louis’ brow furrowed slightly as he took in the details of the room. “It feels like stepping into another time,” he admitted quietly.
“Exactly,” Lestat said, his tone softening. “It’s a place that holds its history close. Every table here has been a witness to laughter, arguments, perhaps even a secret rendezvous or two. It’s alive, in its own way.”
Before Louis could respond, a petite woman with silver hair approached their table, her warm smile and sharp eyes giving her an air of authority. “Monsieur Lestat,” she greeted, her French accent thick but graceful. “You’ve returned.”
“How could I not, Madame Beaulieu?” Lestat said smoothly, standing to kiss her hand. “And this time, I’ve brought a friend.”
Her gaze shifted to Louis, her smile softening as she appraised him. “Ah, a man of good taste, I see.” She handed them menus, her movements deliberate and refined. “Enjoy, gentlemen.”
As she moved away, Louis settled into his seat, his fingers brushing over the edges of the menu. “You’re a regular here?” he asked, glancing up at Lestat.
Lestat shrugged, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I’ve been a few times. It’s one of the few places that hasn’t lost its charm over the years. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
Louis studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Why me?” he asked quietly. “Why bring me here?”
Lestat leaned back slightly, his gaze steady. “Because you needed a moment to breathe,” he said simply. “And perhaps, selfishly, I wanted to see you relax.”
Louis felt his chest tighten slightly, though he quickly pushed the feeling aside. He glanced down at the menu, letting the silence stretch for a moment before speaking. “You’re lucky the place lives up to the hype.”
Lestat chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Oh, I never take risks when it comes to impressing you, mon cher.”
Their conversation drifted into lighter topics as the evening unfolded. The food was exquisite—rich, layered flavors that spoke of old traditions and careful craftsmanship. Lestat’s wit and humor worked their way into every exchange, drawing out quiet smiles and even the occasional soft laugh from Louis.
As they finished their meal, Lestat raised his glass, his pale blue eyes catching the candlelight. “To hidden gems,” he said, his tone playful but carrying a hint of something deeper. “Both in the city and elsewhere.”
Louis hesitated for a moment before clinking his glass against Lestat’s. “To hidden gems,” he echoed softly, his gaze lingering on Lestat’s for a beat longer than necessary.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Louis felt a flicker of warmth, a brief reprieve from the weight he carried. It was fleeting, but in that moment, it was enough.
The food was exquisite—rich, layered flavors that spoke of old traditions and careful craftsmanship. Louis took his time with each bite, savoring the complexity of the dishes while allowing Lestat to fill the space with his playful charm.
“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me how right I was about this place,” Lestat said, leaning slightly forward, his elbow resting casually on the table. His pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
Louis smirked faintly, setting his fork down with deliberate slowness. “You want me to inflate your ego even more?” he replied, his tone dry but edged with warmth.
Lestat tilted his head, his lips curving into a grin. “Oui, absolument. It thrives on such things.”
Louis huffed softly, taking a sip from his wine glass. “It’s… good,” he admitted, his words careful but honest.
“Good?” Lestat echoed, feigning offense. “Madame Beaulieu’s culinary masterpieces reduced to merely ‘good’? Mon Dieu, Louis, you wound me.”
Louis fought the smile threatening to break across his face, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Fine. It’s excellent,” he conceded, his tone mock-serious.
Lestat let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and inviting. “I knew I’d win you over eventually.”
Their conversation drifted into lighter topics—anecdotes about the city, amusing observations about the other patrons. Lestat had a knack for weaving humor into even the simplest stories, and Louis found himself relaxing, the tension of the evening fading with each passing moment.
At one point, Lestat leaned closer, his tone dropping conspiratorially. “I have a theory,” he said, his voice low enough to draw Louis’ full attention.
Louis raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Oh? And what’s that?”
Lestat’s grin turned teasing. “That you’re secretly a romantic, hidden behind all that careful composure. You sit in dimly lit bookstores, brooding over tragic novels, pretending you don’t feel anything. But deep down, you’re just waiting for someone to pull you out of the pages and into the real world.”
Louis stared at him, caught between annoyance and amusement. “That’s an awfully specific theory,” he said, though his tone betrayed a flicker of self-awareness.
“Am I wrong?” Lestat asked, his eyes gleaming with playful challenge.
Louis shook his head, his expression softening as he reached for his glass. “I think you just like the sound of your own voice.”
“Guilty as charged,” Lestat said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.
The conversation shifted, the laughter softening into quieter moments. Louis toyed with the edge of his napkin as he studied Lestat, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his features. “There’s something about this place,” Louis said finally, his voice thoughtful. “It feels… timeless. Like it belongs to another world entirely.”
Lestat nodded, his gaze steady. “Some places have that effect. They carry the weight of their history, the whispers of every soul that’s passed through them.”
Louis hesitated, his fingers brushing against the stem of his glass. “You remind me of something I read once,” he said, his tone quieter now. “About how solitude can feel like both a sanctuary and a prison.”
Lestat tilted his head, intrigued. “Who said that?”
Louis’ lips curved into a faint smile, though he didn’t meet Lestat’s gaze. “Blaise Revenant,” he said softly.
The words landed with a quiet weight, and for a moment, Lestat said nothing. He masked his surprise quickly, leaning forward with feigned nonchalance. “A poet, then?” he asked, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his tone.
“Not exactly,” Louis replied, his gaze flicking briefly to Lestat’s before returning to his plate. “The book from the store, The Weight of Silence. ”
Lestat's eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and something Louis couldn't quite identify as they sat across from each other, the soft flicker of candlelight playing over the table. “So, you finished it?” Lestat asked, his voice tinged with genuine interest.
Louis nodded, his fingers tracing the edge of his wine glass. “I did,” he admitted, his voice reflective. “It was... profound, more so than I expected. The author—Revenant—seems to understand the intricacies of the human spirit in a way that’s almost unsettling.”
Lestat leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his interest palpable. “And what did you take away from it?” he prompted softly.
Louis paused, his thoughts gathering. “There’s a passage,” he began, his gaze briefly flickering down as he recalled the words, “where Revenant writes, ‘We tread softly through the maze of our own psyche, every step echoing through the corridors of our desires and despairs. It is in these echoes that we truly meet ourselves—and perhaps, if we are lucky, another soul to echo back.’ It struck a chord,” he continued, meeting Lestat's intent gaze, “that this isn’t just about the characters in the book. It’s a universal plea for someone to resonate with our deepest selves, to understand the parts of us that we keep hidden.”
Lestat's expression softened, his smile slow but sincere. “That’s beautifully put,” he said, his voice warm. “Revenant would be moved to know his words touched someone so deeply.”
Louis allowed a small smile, a hint of color rising in his cheeks. “It’s rare that a book forces me to introspect the way this one did. It made me question the echoes in my own life, the resonances I’ve ignored or misunderstood.”
“And the connection?” Lestat probed, tilting his head slightly, drawing Louis back to their earlier topic.
“Yes, the connection,” Louis affirmed, leaning back as he pondered. “The book explores not just the solitude of the individual, but the silent calls for understanding, for someone to hear the reverberations of our innermost chambers. It’s about discovering someone who perceives the nuances of your silence.”
The silence that followed was filled with a palpable understanding, a depth of shared experience that words could scarcely encapsulate. Lestat watched Louis for a long moment, then reached into his coat pocket. “If you’re open to it,” he said, producing a slim volume and sliding it across the table, “I have another recommendation for you.”
The cover was simple, the title, Echoes of the Undone , embossed in dark, almost haunting letters.
Louis picked up the book, his eyes scanning the title before flipping it open to skim the first few pages. “What’s this?” he asked, curiosity piquing his voice.
Lestat said, watching Louis’s expression carefully. “It delves into the complexities of our pasts and how they shape our present. It’s… thought-provoking.”
Louis’s gaze lingered on the page, his brow furrowing slightly as he absorbed the first few lines. “Sounds intriguing,” he said, looking up.
Lestat paused, his lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. “Same author, different name,” he thought to himself. Out loud, he simply said, “It’s under a different name, but the themes are similar. I thought of you immediately when I read it.”
Louis nodded, appreciating the gesture. “The last one certainly gave me a lot to think about,” he admitted, placing the book back on the table. He met Lestat’s gaze, a subtle depth in his eyes. “Thank you, I’ll start it tonight.”
Lestat’s smile broadened slightly, pleased with the acceptance. “If only you knew,” he mused silently, the amusement and warmth mingling in his thoughts. “You resonate so much with the words I've written, yet you sit here unknowing. One day, perhaps, I'll tell you everything.”
Their conversation shifted back to lighter topics, but a new layer of connection had been woven between them, subtle yet significant. Lestat’s recommendation wasn’t just about sharing literature; it was an invitation deeper into his world, one veiled in half-truths and silent confessions.
“To hidden gems,” Lestat raised his glass, his pale blue eyes catching the candlelight. “Both in the city and elsewhere.”
“To hidden gems,” Louis echoed, the weight of their conversation lending a new depth to the words.
Lestat reached across the table, his hand extending with an elegance that seemed both deliberate and natural. His fingers brushed gently against Louis's, a touch light yet charged with an unspoken promise.
Louis felt his heart skip, the rhythm suddenly pounding uncontrollably as Lestat's touch lingered. The simple contact sent a rush of warmth through him, his mind, usually so organized and composed, whirling into disarray. He was acutely aware of every point where their skin met, each sensation magnified in the quiet of the restaurant.
Lestat, sensing the flurry of emotions cascading through Louis's thoughts, allowed himself a small, knowing smile, feeling a pulse of exhilaration at the realization that Louis was starting to have deeper feelings for him. His thumb gently caressed Louis's hand, a subtle reassurance amid the storm of feelings he had stirred.
After a moment that seemed both fleeting and eternal, Lestat gently squeezed Louis's hand before pulling back. "Shall we leave?" he suggested, his voice a soft invitation that hinted at more yet to come.
Louis, still feeling the warmth of Lestat's touch lingering on his skin, nodded, his voice a soft murmur of agreement. "I’d like that. Maybe we could... continue this evening?"
"Absolutely," Lestat replied with a warm smile. "Why don't you join me for a nightcap at my place? We can relax and unwind."
Grateful for the offer and eager to prolong the night, Louis accepted, and they left the bistro side by side, their shoulders nearly touching. The walk to Lestat's home was short, the night air cool and refreshing, adding a crisp contrast to the warmth brewing between them.
As they approached the familiar stone steps of Lestat's imposing residence, Louis felt the building anticipation of returning to a place that was both grand and intimately familiar. The once overwhelming grandeur now felt welcoming, a rich backdrop to the deepening connection between them.
Lestat led the way with an air of relaxed attentiveness. The dimly lit hallway, which had first awed Louis, now seemed to warmly invite him into a world where history seamlessly intertwined with the present. Moving through the corridors, each step seemed to draw them closer, deepening the sense of entering Lestat's private world.
In the ornate parlor, Lestat poured two glasses of a rich amber liqueur, its deep, complex aroma filling the air. He handed one to Louis, their fingers brushing briefly—the touch electric, reigniting the flutter in Louis's chest that had first sparked at their bistro encounter.
"To continued discoveries," Lestat toasted, his eyes holding a meaningful glint.
"To new depths," Louis responded, his voice imbued with an intensity that felt more profound than their casual toast might suggest.
They settled into the deep, welcoming cushions of an aged leather sofa, surrounded by books and the faint scent of wood polish and history. The conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on topics from the mundane to the metaphysical. Lestat's stories were peppered with humor and insights, drawing Louis into a world woven with intrigue and enigma.
As Lestat shared a particularly whimsical tale about a midnight escapade in Venice, his laughter was contagious, sparking a lightness in Louis that he hadn't felt in years. The tale ended with a theatrical gesture that left Louis chuckling, appreciating the animated expressiveness of his host.
"You have a way of making the past come alive," Louis observed, the liqueur emboldening his words. "It’s as if you’ve lived these adventures yourself."
Lestat's smile was enigmatic. "Perhaps I have, in a manner of speaking," he mused, his gaze lingering on Louis with an intensity that seemed to see through to his core.
The night deepened, and with it, the connection between them grew. Lestat refilled their glasses, each clink of the crystal echoing softly in the room.Lestat leaned forward slightly, reducing the space between them. His voice lowered to a whisper, thrilling Louis with its proximity. "What’s the most daring thing you’ve ever done, Louis?" he asked, a playful challenge in his tone.
Caught off guard by the question, Louis hesitated, then smiled. "Joining you tonight might top the list," he admitted, his response more honest than he'd intended.
Lestat's laughter was soft and inviting. "Then let us ensure the night is worth the venture," he proposed, his eyes gleaming with mischief and promise.
Their dialogue turned into a gentle dance of words and glances, each phrase pulling them closer. Lestat's hand brushed against Louis’s as he passed him his refilled glass, a touch that lingered, sending a shiver down Louis’s spine.
"Your stories are enthralling," Louis confessed, his inhibitions lowered by the intimate atmosphere and the warmth spreading through his veins. "But the storyteller even more so."
Lestat’s response was a smile that reached his eyes, softening his features. "You are an excellent audience," he said, his tone implying deeper layers of appreciation.
"Speaking of tales," Lestat said, shifting slightly closer, "your pants from the other night are freshly laundered and awaiting their owner. Shall we venture forth to rescue them from their lonely exile?"
Louis laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Lead the way, my gallant rescuer. Let's not keep my pants in suspense any longer."
They rose together, the movement fluid as if choreographed by the night itself. As they ascended the grand staircase, their steps light, the conversation continued to flow effortlessly, filled with quips and quiet confidences.
Reaching the upper hallway, Lestat guided Louis down a richly carpeted corridor, the walls adorned with art that seemed to watch their progress with silent amusement. Stopping before a tall, ornately carved door, Lestat turned with a flourish.
"Behind this door lies not just your pants but perhaps a few more tales waiting to be told," he declared, his hand on the doorknob, the playful glint in his eyes promising more than just the retrieval of clothing.
As the door swung open, revealing the elegant simplicity of Lestat's private quarters, the boundary between story and reality blurred, each step forward weaving them deeper into each other's narratives. The room was a sanctuary of personal and historical significance, each item a thread in the tapestry of Lestat’s life.
"Here we are," Lestat announced, stepping aside to allow Louis a better view. "Sanctuary and storeroom, all in one."
Louis stepped in, his gaze wandering over the intricately carved furniture and the numerous paintings that adorned the walls. Each piece seemed to hold a whisper of Lestat’s extensive past, a curated collection that spoke volumes of his complex character.
"And there," Lestat pointed towards an antique wooden wardrobe, "lie your pants."
Moving to the wardrobe, Lestat opened it with a flourish, revealing neatly hung garments and a shelf where a pair of neatly folded trousers awaited. He picked them up, holding them out to Louis with a raised eyebrow. "Recovered and restored, just as promised."
Louis took the pants, their fingers brushing momentarily, sending a ripple of energy through the air. He couldn't help but smile, the gesture stirring a warmth in his chest that had little to do with the ambient temperature of the room.
"Thank you," he said, his voice softening. "For taking care of them... and for a memorable evening."
Lestat stepped closer, his presence enveloping Louis in a wave of subtle cologne and unmistakable warmth. "The night doesn't have to end here," he murmured, his voice a low timbre that seemed to vibrate through Louis’s senses. "There are more tales to be told, more memories to be made."
Louis’s heartbeat quickened, his initial intention to keep a polite distance waning under Lestat’s intense gaze and the sincere affection in his voice. He looked down at the pants in his hands, then back up at Lestat, a decision forming amidst the tumult of his thoughts.
"Perhaps I could stay... to hear another story?" Louis ventured, the words more an invitation than a question.
Lestat’s eyes lit up, the corners crinkling with genuine pleasure. "I’d like that," he said. "Very much."
Closing the gap between them, Lestat reached out to gently set the pants aside, his fingers lingering close to Louis’s. He touched Louis’s cheek softly, guiding his attention back to the moment.
"Stay with me," Lestat whispered, not just a request now, but a heartfelt plea.
Louis leaned into the touch, his own hand reaching up to cover Lestat’s. "Yes," he breathed out, no longer able to imagine pulling away.
Their lips met, with deliberate intent, sealing the unspoken promises that the night had woven around them. It was a kiss that spoke of beginnings, a deep, lingering connection that promised to grow with each passing moment.