Spoilers: All Vampire Chronicles
Disclaimers: KC does not own these vampires, Anne Rice does, and the Grimm Brothers wrote Sleeping Beauty.
Sleeping Beauty a.k.a. Sleeping Louis
By KC
It was the loud popping of one of the logs in the fire that caught Lestat's attention. He looked up from his newspaper and stared at the digital clock. Eight o'clock. He smiled and took one last glimpse at the only section of the paper that he read, enjoying Garfield's sarcastic comments as only one who empathized with the orange cat could. With a loud sigh, he stood and stretched, then made his way to the stairs. Almost time for Louis to wake up.
He lay his hand on the wooden banister, and he remembered the look on Louis' face when he'd found out abruptly that the railing was a foot short to be of any use. Lestat chuckled as his memories played out before him, the time when Louis had slipped on the steps and reached for the banister, only to topple clumsily over the side. And he would have fallen on his head if Lestat hadn't been there to catch him.
"Oh, my beloved," Lestat had laughed, "you're supposed to be a graceful vampire, and look what happens." He'd never told Louis that he was the one who'd sprayed the floor with starch to make it slippery in the first place. "We wouldn't want to mar that beautiful face, would we?"
"Is that all you love me for?" Louis asked predictably in his usual melancholy voice. "A nice face?"
"Chere, I love your beautiful face, your beautiful body," Lestat'd said, and Louis had been about to cry, until Lestat had said, "and your beautiful soul, and beautiful mind."
And then Louis had cried, with a small smile.
"My hopeless romantic," Lestat laughed lowly, dragging his thoughts back to the present. He wasn't able to keep them there. The next few steps took him past a painting framed in dark wood. It was a painting Louis had bought through a catalog, since he hated to go shopping in person, among mortals.
Convincing Lestat to get the painting had taken awhile, though. Lestat thought the picture was silly for humans to have and utterly ridiculous for vampires to put up in their house. Louis' struggle had been long, extending over several nights, until he'd chosen the perfect ammunition to win with Lestat.
"Please, darling, I really think it would look fine in the house, just along the staircase."
"Louis, you know I love you, but where on earth do you get these peculiar ideas?"
Louis leaned down over Lestat, who was beside him in bed at the time, and gave him a fleeting kiss. "Lestat...it would make me happy."
The painting had arrived in two days.
Lestat glanced up at the painting, a picture of the rising sun over a forest and river, and shook his head in amazement. "You can be just as manipulative as I at times, Beautiful One."
He paused where he was. "Beautiful One," he whispered. "Strange, but I cannot remember when I first began to call him that." He sat down on the steps and thought, trying to remember back to their earliest nights together, even when he'd just watched Louis as a human coming out of that den of drunken vipers. He'd been gorgeous in the moonlight, staggering so helplessly that his body practically screamed out "bite me!"
Of course, he'd been equally beautiful in his bed, feverish and so prettily vulnerable that Lestat had fallen in love with him a second time.
"If only I'd been able to tell you then that I loved you," Lestat murmured. "But then you didn't make it so easy, either. Loving you is like loving a bush of roses. You are dazzled by the beauty, and then cut to ribbons by the thorns."
Indeed, a wall of thorns and roses had been growing amongst them during a great part of their lives together. Lestat would hit or belittle his weak companion, and Louis would hurl insults and unveiled but false hatred. The roses were love and the thorns were pride, and both of them had watered the thorn bush, practically flooding it with violent emotions.
Lestat sighed and allowed his head to fall forward. It was hard work to hack and slash through that bush, to get through his own hangups, even when he knew Louis was on the other side, trying to do the same. Neither of them wanted the thorns to win, but getting to the roses in the relationship hurt. Buds and petals were far and few between the long, sharp barbs. But the blossoms were always sweet once reached. Always worth the fight, worth the torn and bleeding hands.
He stood back up and ascended the rest of the steps, but he stopped again at the small table right outside the bedroom door. On the top, covered by a fine layer of dust, was a porcelain music box covered in cloisonné red flowers and green, needle-like Arabic stylings over a white background. Lestat picked it up and quietly blew the dust from surface. The little cloud swirled and danced in the air, then drifted down to settle on his hands and shirt. He lifted the box, and immediately "Beautiful Dreamer" chimed out as a shapely dancer twirled about on center stage, the mirror behind her reflecting her moves.
Lestat loved the song. It reminded him of his lover. So did the dancer, who whirled to her own music over and over, always predictable, except when something would happen on the inside of the box and she would change her dance steps. Once it happened, the change was usually permanent, although she never made an untrue move. So much like Louis.
Lestat glanced back down at the digital clock. Eight fifteen. He set the box back down and shut the lid, then softly stole into the bedroom. A full moon surrounded by twinkling stars blazed down a silver trail, a branch of the milky road behind it, spilling in a straight stream over his lover. Louis was still in his deathly sleep, the blankets fallen loosely to his waist and revealing the slender frame. Dark hair billowed out around his head, his lips parted just slightly. He had slept this way for over a hundred years, awake only for a short time of his life. No wonder he was a romantic. He lived in dreams for most of his vampiric life.
Lestat grinned and bent over him, waiting for just the right moment. This was more of an art than a science, and one false move could mar it. After decades of living with Louis, though, watching his sleeping face, he knew precisely when to strike.
After a long moment, Lestat felt that it was time and gently lay his lips on his fledgling's. There was a slight stir beneath him, a happy moan and then Louis was kissing back. Lestat pulled away and was rewarded with a smile from his lover.
"My Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up," Lestat teased.
"Then are you my Prince Charming?" Louis laughed.
"Aren't I always?"
Louis reached his hand up, and Lestat oblingingly lifted him to his feet. His fledgling made a move to walk away though, so Lestat reached out, put his hands on Louis' waist, and pulled him back onto his lap. Louis gave his maker a stern glance that was obviously pretended.
"Lestat, I am not something to be manhandled."
"And I'm not manhandling you," Lestat insisted. He tilted Louis back and this time their kiss was much more passionate. "I'm vampire-handling you."
Louis sighed and shook his head. "You're more of a Prince Brat-ling than a Prince Charming."
"Yes, but I'm your prince, and you're my Sleeping Beauty."
"You do know, Lestat, in the original story, the prince abuses the poor sleeping girl, taking advantage of her defenselessness." Louis smiled and looked up at him through his eyelashes.
"Well, we wouldn't want to upset the fairy tale," Lestat laughed, setting Louis back on the bed. "Just pretend you're still asleep, and I'll use your poor, defenseless body."
"My hero," Louis purred, "coming through the hedge of thorns for me."
"Who cares about the thorns?" Lestat whispered. "All I ever see are the roses."
The End
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