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I tried, didn't I? Goddamnit. At least I did that. - One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
"What happened?"
Armand hadn't meant to sound so strident as he entered the room; the effect was immediate, with Louis pulling his hand from Cyril's ministrations and hiding it behind his back.
"Stop, let me check..." chided Cyril, and he returned to his scrutiny when Louis held out his hand once more.
Armand came closer, and frowned to see the livid ugly bruising all but covering the porcelain back of Louis's hand. Cyril grasped Louis's wrist and turned it slightly, nodding when Louis let out a hiss and flexed his delicate piano player's fingers. There was bruising along them, too, ivory skin turned blue and purple from the injury.
"He's hitting you?" asked Armand.
Louis gave him a tolerant look. "You know he wouldn't."
"No," he said firmly. "I don't. And what's this?" he gestured accusingly to Louis's hand.
"This," said Cyril, "is a crushing injury. Most of the bones in your hand are broken, but your fingers are already healing. Give it until tomorrow night, you'll be fine."
"What happened!" Armand repeated heatedly.
Cyril straightened up, towering above him. "Don't get any ideas," he warned.
Before Armand could retort, Louis had grasped Cyril's hand in his non-injured one. "Give us a minute."
"Lestat said I should--"
"That wasn't a request," said Louis curtly.
Cyril nodded slightly. He gave Armand one last meaningful look, then left the room.
"He didn't mean it," said Louis as the door shut. "We were just watching a film -- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest -- I know! I don't understand why he had that reaction, either. And he was holding my hand and then he-- it was nothing," he finished lamely.
Armand folded his arms. "Why did he do it?"
"I don't know," he insisted. "I -- he wasn't aware he was doing it. He seemed to go in on himself, and even when I hit him and screamed at him, he didn't let go. Cyril was outside -- he's always outside, of course -- and he had to slap Lestat across the face before he realised what he was doing."
Armand sat down heavily next to him. "Lyubimaya, this isn't good."
Louis shook his head. "It's -- not the same, it's not like -- St Elizabeth's. It's just something that happened."
"You can always come back to Trinity Gate with me, if you need it."
Louis gave him a look that was somehow sad and defiant all at once. "You know I can't."
"Let him try and stop you!" snapped Armand.
"It's more than that, you know it."
Armand paused; regarded him for a long moment. "I do," he conceded.
Louis sank back into the cushions, and Armand followed him. He smoothed a lock of black hair from Louis's temple, and cupped his cheek. "You'll be okay?"
Louis accepted the loving kiss that followed. "Yes," he breathed. "But check in on him, won't you? I think he needs a friend right now." He considered. "And we were never friends."
He found Lestat in the Prince's quarters, where there was an ornate room set aside for the Prince's inner circle: sometimes Marius or Gabrielle might be there, usually Louis. But tonight Lestat was alone, sitting on the luxurious Italian couch he had installed on the veranda. He did not pull his gaze away from the rolling countryside when Armand entered; he must have heard him coming down the hall but had not called out his usual cheerful greeting.
Armand picked up a throw from one of the chaises longues and carried it outside to Lestat. He placed it about the Prince's shoulders, permitted this small intimacy.
"Thanks," said Lestat. He regarded him warily, like one might a stranger when offered a gift out of the blue. He did not seem pleased when Armand took a seat next to him, but that was of no concern; Armand was a like a cat who did what he felt was fitting and correct, and the coven indulged him.
They sat in silence for some time. Lestat threw back his head, watching the star-spattered night sky somberly. Out in the Auvergne mountains there wasn't the ambient light of New York, which blotted out the stars even to immortal eyes. The night sky was a canvas of light and beauty. Armand imagined a mortal Lestat staring up at that time sky in the 1700s, and smiled, charmed.
"So where's the lecture?" said Lestat eventually.
He shook his head. "No lecture. What would I say to you?"
"That I'm a fiend. That I'm an abusive bully; that you knew I would do this eventually."
Armand regarded him, his soft brown eyes large and thoughtful. "Do you want me to say these things?" he asked.
Lestat shook his head. "I expected it. And I was ready to fight you." He snorted. "Physically."
Armand smiled. "If it pleases you, we can fight."
Lestat rubbed at his nose, sniffed a little. "I would never hurt him," he said hoarsely. "Never, ever again."
"He knows that." At Lestat's doubtful look, he clarified: "he said that himself."
"I can't lose him," insisted Lestat.
"You won't," he said with a scowl. "What were his words? He would follow you like St Peter."
"On account of my gorgeous hair,' said Lestat, laughing a little.
"Our Louis is easily charmed."
Lestat smiled, then sobered under his gaze. "It wasn't an argument, you know. I've just been thinking lately." He sighed. "Not that that ever does me any good; I'm not given to philopsohy. I think I got lost in thought."
"Was the thought about crushing hands?" he jibed, just because he could.
"You asshole," said Lestat mildly. He looked towards the door, where Cyril and Thorne would be standing sentinel just outside. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "You know, things are so good now. I have everything: my tribe, my lover, my home. It gives me time to think, I guess."
Armand watched him carefully, his eyes raking over the pensive figure next to him. "And does that do you good?"
Lestat shrugged. "I dunno." He paused, took a deep breath. "I like to catch up on media I missed when I was asleep. I asked Louis to put that film on." He pulled the throw closer about himself. "It was good. A little heavy-handed on the Christ analogy, maybe."
"It's a good film," said Armand agreeably. He let the silence lapse. He waited.
Finally, Lestat spoke. "When He was on the cross. Jesus, I mean. Not Jack Nicholson. Do you ever think of how -- lonely -- He must have been up there?"
Armand studied him carefully. "All the time," he said. His voice faltered only briefly, but he saw Lestat quicken all the same.
"And when He returned," said Lestat, and clasped his shoulder. "The Apostles acted with suspicion. Thomas didn't believe, because the Word wasn't good enough." He considered. "No, that's not it. How could they understand if they didn't experience it?"
Armand stroked the hand Lestat had lain on him. "I don't think even He understood, my friend."
Lestat cast him a stricken look."You think?"
"And at the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”
"At least He got his answer."
"Louis saw only darkness when he died," said Armand. "You're not ready to hear it -- don't look at me like that, it's not a criticism -- the damage it did to him."
Lestat scowled. He pulled away from Armand, and stared up at the sky again. "You didn't. You saw things, like I did. I would rather the darkness. And then we have to return -- and what do we say to people!" He turned to Armand, a stricken look across his handsome face. "I don't know!"
"Mortals are no better off than we are, Lestat. They don't have their answers, either." He scoffed, "they think they do. Nobody does."
Lestat gave him a sly smile. "Not even Marius?"
He threw back his head. "Especially Marius."
Lestat chuckled a little. He tapped his fingers on his knee, fidgeted. All good signs. "But you can't go back."
"No," said Armand slowly. He gestured to the room, to the stars, to Lestat, to himself. "There's only the after."
Blood tears gathered in Lestat's eyes."God!" he burst out. And when Armand opened his arms, he fell into the embrace gladly, cleaving to him, absolved.