Disclaimer: Louis and Lestat belong to Anne Rice. I am making no money off this wee ficlet.
"You'll never get to see it again," he says. His voice is wistful, and I wonder if he misses the sun.
But I'm so tired, Lestat, I think. I just want to sleep.
He reads my thoughts. "It's your last sunrise," he says. His voice is quiet and gentle. "You have to see it. You have to see it and you have to savor it."
There are slaves clattering around in the kitchen and the rooms downstairs already and I can hear the birds outside my window chirping. I hear their combined sounds- a blend of clanking plates and shrill cries- and it makes me wonder how I can manage to sleep through the noise they make in the morning.
He's laying next to me, on his side, facing me. His bright hair messed and his fine dark red jacket lying in a heap at the foot of the bed, wearing only his thin silk white shirt with the lace-ruffled color and black trousers. His blue eyes gaze into mine, not the least bit tired. Of course he's not tired, I think drowsily. He's a creature of the night. Like I will be soon.
He smiles then reaches up and grazes his sharp fingernails against my cheek. His fingers are blood stained from drinking from me last night and some of the blood leaked onto his hands. Softly he kisses my neck and moves so that he's almost lying on top of me.
I could stay like this forever. I could just lay here for all eternity with his weight on me, gently pressing his lips against mine and running his nails up and down against the side of my face and he feels so solid and real compared to me in my dreamlike state. I love the feel of his breath against my cheek as he whispers sweet endurances in French against my ear and the way he smoothes the hair back from my forehead and how his fingers and skin are so cool and when he whispers, "I love you," how much I believe him and I know he means it.
"I need to sleep," I murmur because it's an effort to talk now.
A vague hint of a smile graces his face as he says, "I know, mon ange, I know. And you can go back to sleep after you watch the sunrise."
I love how he's almost begging me to watch it, then I think of his needs. "But… but what about you?" I ask and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth, like lead or marble. "You can't even be near the sunrise or you'll die."
Suddenly, that thought seizes my mind and my eyes snap open. I couldn't deal with it; I'd go mad with grief, like after Paul's death. Before I'd healed. Before him.
He reads my thoughts and meets my eyes with his before softly kissing my lips and forehead and cheek and runs a soothing hand over my brow. "Shh, you needn't worry about me. I won't die. I'll be out of here and away from the sun-" he snaps his white fingers- "that fast, mon chér."
Quickly he pulls on his velvet jacket and puts the black leather gloves on his hands and pull on his shoes. Then he walks back to me and captures my mouth in a long, lingering kiss. When we break away slowly, he says, in a voice so soft I can hardly make it out, "I love you." Then he smoothes down his hair and quickly took his leave.
I'm left sitting on my bed and staring at the closed door, feeling half-gone. Then I stand, weakly and wearily, and stagger over to the window, pulling it open. I feel the cool breeze gently caress my face, not as gently as he had, and then the sun slowly peaks over the horizon and its warm rays spread over the landscape and fall over me, bright and golden and it reminds me so of his hair and that only makes our brief separation that much worse.
But, in the end, the sun is only light, and he is my sun now.