Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / The Chosen of God Part 12

DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

Part Twelve
by: The Brat Queen

Winner: Best Lestat '98-'99!

Characters: Lestat, Armand
Spoilers: Up to TotBT
Description: In response to Jester of God, Lestat tells his life story.

Rated R for upsetting adult content

Warning: CoG contains triggering elements. If you know what "triggering" means you may wish to not read this. If you don't then just be warned that it and Jester of God are very similar.

“So, like, this is new for you, huh?” he asked. We were sitting in that small outgrove by the house that you're familiar with. The one with the rock garden and the view of the water.

“More or less,” I said. We were talking about emotions. Specifically my own, although he was being too much of a gentleman to truly say so aloud. It proved to be an interesting verbal dance.

The conversation in truth had started a few nights prior. I'd mentioned my occasional fear of sleeping – especially when I am drawn into it against my will. He'd professed ignorance as to why and, smiling, I had to gently remind him that for me the concept of nighttime invaders was not unknown.

He'd been horrified at his forgetfulness, but even so it peaked his curiosity a bit.

Which I didn't mind. I never mind the conversation, so long as I can be certain of where it is going.

Returning to the moment at hand, he was thinking about his next question.

“Why?” was his final choice, after a few false starts.

“Why do I find emotions difficult, or why do I find it difficult to express them?”

“Either. Both.”

“Emotions aren't always honest,” I said. “And expressing what you feel is a failure.”

“Now that-that's bullshit.”

I grinned. “In some ways. In others, not as such.”

“Why?”

I tried for a tone that was honest without being hurtful. “Because to express myself would mean letting others know how I feel. And to let them know that I feel pleasure, or hurt, would be to give them a victory over me for the emotion. I want my emotions to be my own.”

He thought about this, rolling it over carefully in his mind.

“It's different now,” I said, hoping to somehow lighten the cruelty of the images that he might be seeing. “Which is entirely thanks to Louis. With him I can trust enough to show how I feel.”

“Ah,” he said, holding up a hand to emphasize his point. “But do you trust enough to let yourself feel? This is the problem.”

“Oh?” I asked, but I was smiling.

“Yes. Because you hold back. You fight it off like-like…” he waved a hand dismissively, then shrugged. “I've seen it. You don't think you should feel pleasure. Which is why you let people treat you like shit. Anyone who wants to make you happy has to, like, trick you into it. You're only happy if you get surprised. Anything else is like –" another wave and shrug “it doesn't count.”

My smile became broader. "True," I admitted. "But just because I don't show my pleasure doesn't mean I don't feel it."

"Maybe," he said.

Throughout all of this I nursed a memory. It was one of feeling, more than sight or sound. It was something I could feel in my muscles and bones. A stiffness in my body. A woodenness to counteract whatever else might be happening to me. I could remember it from countless times, used it as a defense again and again to discourage whomever was lying on top of me.

Discourage him, and lie to myself.

I wondered if my companion could understand that. And, in a way, I wanted to speak the words – share the picture – but knew it would be too vulgar for this little conversation.

There was a spark of loneliness in that. Because of it, I must have looked away.

"Hey," he said. "None of that bullshit with me. You know better, Lestat."

And then, much as he said, I was surprised into happiness again. I grinned, enjoying the joke of my name. It was used only when I was truly being a pretentious bastard.

In response, I mimed putting my hand over my heart as though I'd been shot.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Well get over it." It was his turn to grow serious then. "You know, you shouldn't…. Don't put up with this crap, man. Don't let everybody rag on you. You're an asshole sometimes, yeah, but not all the time. You're not the guy you think you are. Don't go off with that 'suffering in silence' bullshit, ok? It's not worth it."

"Alright," I said, not entirely certain what his intentions were with all of it, but willing to agree to it nonetheless.

"Yeah, well, remember that," he said. He reached over and scruffed my hair in a comfortable gesture. There was a pause before he continued. "I'm here, you know. You've got a problem – you come get me, ok?"

"Ok," I said. And with that the conversation ended, leaving us to sit in companionable silence – him to his thoughts, me to my memories.

But still in all I was glad for it. Glad for the clarifications we had spoken, and for the feeling that in somehow, by speaking with your Child, I had also spoken to you.

L.

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