[ Shipped overnight for Valentine's Day wherever Lestat happens to be in the world, a long flat black box in a FedEx envelope. Inside the box, there's 11 long stemmed red roses, and a postcard-sized photo in a slim black frame. The photo is of Claudia in a pretty dress smiling for the camera, one of many taken in Paris that Louis has hoarded over the years and found difficult to part with.
There's a note with the gifts: ]
One rose for each of our decades, and something you ought to have. You ended up with so little to remember her. I always regretted that.
[ lestat spends some time alone with the gift, simply letting the slender box sit open in the dressing room of thst night's venue. he can't bring himself to pick up the photo, not for at least an hour or so in fear of immediately shattering it with his trembling hands.
instead he sits there, cigarette dangling between his fingers and traces the glass with a claw. over their daughter's face caught in a familiar wolfish grin, posing on the parisian streets he knew so well. his little terror, fierce and bright. another image to imprint over the one behind his eyelids, the half charred spectre seen too often in the throngs of clamouring fans. in this photo, he would like to think of her relishing in her newfound love, her very own lestatlouis companion heart.
the ache is back. lestat closes the box lid once more just in case those joyful eyes turn flinty. scrubs his own eyes free of the red swimming there, reaches blindly for the vodka.
it's still early in the evening when louis receives a text in response: a photo of the closed box, lestat's elegant hand holding the note.]
[ the framed photo will be carried around from dressing room to dressing room now, placed carefully beside each mirror to gaze at before taking the stage. folded delicately back into pink silk, tucked into the box and stowed at the end of each night. the roses would wither and crisp with age but stay tucked alongside, fragrant reminders of their time together.
for now, lestat continues to gaze at it, only tearing his eyes away to respond to louis' messages. ]
It would be my pleasure to accompany you, if you will have me. I would enjoy seeing the festivities once more.
Not like it was. But there's still a little of the old spirit.
[ And because he's got a -- not a sense, more like a feeling. A sadness that doesn't feel like it belongs to him, though it echoes in his body all the same, like calling to like. An outstretched hand he can't reach for. ]
There's pain and there's pain. But I'm glad you like it. That you still like seeing her.
It was hard for me for a while. I couldn't look at the pictures, couldn't stand to be in the same room as the things we had of hers. Had it all boxed up and put in storage. But I went back eventually. Spent a month just going through it all. Felt like saying goodbye and saying hello again all at the same time.
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delivery
There's a note with the gifts: ]
One rose for each of our decades, and something you ought to have. You ended up with so little to remember her. I always regretted that.
Love, always.
Louis
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instead he sits there, cigarette dangling between his fingers and traces the glass with a claw. over their daughter's face caught in a familiar wolfish grin, posing on the parisian streets he knew so well. his little terror, fierce and bright. another image to imprint over the one behind his eyelids, the half charred spectre seen too often in the throngs of clamouring fans. in this photo, he would like to think of her relishing in her newfound love, her very own lestatlouis companion heart.
the ache is back. lestat closes the box lid once more just in case those joyful eyes turn flinty. scrubs his own eyes free of the red swimming there, reaches blindly for the vodka.
it's still early in the evening when louis receives a text in response: a photo of the closed box, lestat's elegant hand holding the note.]
Thank you. I will cherish this.
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[ A little pause, then a follow up message: ]
Might do Mardi Gras in New Orleans. You want to come with me? See some of the old neighborhood again.
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for now, lestat continues to gaze at it, only tearing his eyes away to respond to louis' messages. ]
It would be my pleasure to accompany you, if you will have me. I would enjoy seeing the festivities once more.
no subject
[ And because he's got a -- not a sense, more like a feeling. A sadness that doesn't feel like it belongs to him, though it echoes in his body all the same, like calling to like. An outstretched hand he can't reach for. ]
You okay?
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But I needed this. I'm grateful.
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It was hard for me for a while. I couldn't look at the pictures, couldn't stand to be in the same room as the things we had of hers. Had it all boxed up and put in storage. But I went back eventually. Spent a month just going through it all. Felt like saying goodbye and saying hello again all at the same time.
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Did it get easier to see her?
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No. But I got used to the pain. Made me wish we'd recorded something of her voice. Spent too much time assuming we had more time than we did.