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Chapter Text

No one spoke French the way that Nicolas did.

"Moi, je suis aussi impossible, Monsieur." He said it emphatically, as if it meant something. "Seul l'impossible peut faire l'impossible."¹

Lestat rarely heard French at all from the villagers, who preferred to speak to each other in their native patois and only very occasionally, deferentially, addressed him in halting French— although the truth was that for him, too, the sounds of Auvernhat rose to his lips more quickly than proper French, particularly in times of emotion. 

It irritated his father to hear patois from his son, as it was not language befitting the son of a great French family, but the habit persisted, even when his brothers ceased speaking it entirely.

And yet not even his father spoke French the way that Nicolas did, the words crisp and articulated, with no hint of the ending syllables that brought warmth and musicality to the language. Lestat found himself laughing in wonder at Nicolas, with his perfect French, perfect clothing, perfect smiling composure. It was as if he were born and raised a Parisian aristocrat, and yet Lestat had known him as a boy and knew he came from the same country backwater as the rest of them, never mind his family's wealth.

After the villagers had gone, Lestat heard from his mother the story of Nicolas abandoning his studies in Paris for the violin. That his father thought of him as a disgrace, despite how magnificent he'd seemed to Lestat. For days after that, Lestat would stand in front of the mirror in his bedroom and repeat the words the way he'd heard Nicolas say them, the way he sometimes mimicked his mother's Italian. His poor attempt did not compare. And so it was that a week later he decided to go into Tournemire and seek out Nicolas, to hear him speak again as much as for any other reason.

He waited for him in the inn across from Nicolas's father's shop. Before he'd even finished pouring himself his first glass of wine, Nicolas walked in. This time his composure was not so perfect; his cheeks were a little flushed, his hair a little tousled, and his perfect mouth parted just enough to indicate that he'd been running, though he strolled casually through the door and bowed with poise to Lestat. The sight of him, in fine clothing as he always was but not the beautiful lace he'd worn the last time they'd spoken, delighted Lestat. What delighted him even more was the sound of his words, which came tumbling out breathlessly, somehow still in that alluringly foreign accent.

"Comment était-ce, Monsieur, de tuer les loups ?"² Nicolas stared at him, eyes wide with the same wonder that Lestat felt. But Lestat didn't want to talk about the wolves.

"Pourquoi ne me dites-vous pas comment c'était à Paris, Monsieur ?"³ Lestat imitated his accent as he spoke, in love with the sound of it, but Nicolas seemed taken aback and Lestat felt his cheeks color as he rushed to clarify that he was not mocking him. "I'm sorry. I would really like to know." And the questions poured out of him from there, his mimicked accent falling away into the sort of French he'd learned growing up.

Nicolas laughed at him, at both the barrage of questions and at Lestat's attempt at imitation, but he was thankfully not offended. He brought Lestat up quickly to a private room in the inn and they talked there for hours on end about Paris. The theatres and the boulevards and the balls all seemed to come to life vividly in Nicolas's marvelous accent. 

Lestat listened in breathless wonder. Nicolas himself seemed dismissive of any charm the city might hold until Lestat, buoyed by the new tangibility of this dream, began to reflect it back at him, to describe what he'd see in Paris if he visited:

"—cafés where I'd meet people like you, who think and speak the way you do, who have quick minds and clever tongues, and we'll sit and drink and talk for the rest of our lives in divine excitement—" 

He had more to say, about the perfect French they'd all speak together and the wonderful arguments they'd have, but Nicolas silenced him with a bold kiss. Lestat surged to meet him, standing up into it and nearly knocking over the table in his enthusiasm. He'd never kissed, nor been kissed, in this particular way, and certainly not with a man. It felt like opening his eyes while swimming and finding that he could see clearly underwater. Part of him, enchanted with Nicolas and with the small wooden room of the inn which had managed to transport him to the city of lights, wished to cry out, 'I love you!' 

Lestat was drunk, but not drunk enough to embarrass himself so thoroughly. Nicolas, on the other hand, seemed entirely without fear or shame. He wanted Lestat and so he kissed him, without thought or care for what Lestat might have had done to him if he were offended by it. 

"My lord," whispered Nicolas, "the wolfkiller."

Lestat answered by kissing him again, tugging him towards the little bed of straw. They shared a second, silent language with each other there, until there was a knock at the door and Nicolas rose to fetch the third bottle of wine of the evening.

They no longer talked about Paris explicitly, but about their hearts, their feelings. The way they both yearned for something else, for some thing or some place or some one that would give everything meaning. Nicolas was as drunk as Lestat was, because he began to trip over his beautiful French.

"Est-ce ... Je veux dire, rêvez-vous parfois, mon ... Monsieur—"⁴

"Don't call me that any more. Call me by my first name."

"Çò que ditzes, Lestat," said Nicolas, switching abruptly to Auvernhat. "Rèves encara de fugir?"⁵

And Lestat realized that nobody else spoke Auvernhat the way that Nicolas did, either, or at least they didn't speak it that way to him. He spoke it with the exact same measure of passion, confidence, even defiance that he spoke French, the same way that he'd kissed Lestat. When patois was addressed to Lestat, it was ordinarily with a measure of embarrassment, almost an apology, and since he'd killed the wolves, with deferential reverence. There was tremendous affection in Nicolas's voice, but not the same reverence. He was not abashed to speak Auvernhat with Lestat; he was, by contrast, full of audacity, prepared to shock Lestat and welcoming of the possibility.

Lestat was not shocked, any more than he had been by the kiss. He was instead delighted. When he answered Nicolas in patois, the words poured out of him more fluidly, more freely. He found it easier to speak of his complete loneliness, the way he couldn't bear the company of his family. How much he felt like a prisoner in the castle, kept poor and illiterate and clinging to the dead thing that was his father's aristocratic heritage. Nicolas agreed almost violently with everything that Lestat said, and he spoke to him in turn of his loss of faith, his resentment towards his own father. Lestat had never felt so completely in sympathy with any other person. He wanted to kiss Nicolas again, but he could not bear to make him stop talking. 

Even the few minutes' wait between when he'd begged Nicolas to play his violin for him and when Nicolas returned with said violin felt almost unbearable. Lestat stretched himself out on the little straw bed while he waited, his head spinning, and not from the drink. The entirety of the day felt like a fever dream, but Nicolas returned, and as he played, the reality of it all struck Lestat to the core. Here was Nicolas, who he'd known all his life and never thought twice about, but in the matter of hours Lestat had gone from perfect loneliness to perfect mutual understanding and affection.

"Lestat, per qué plores?"⁶ Nicolas was embracing him now on the bed, placing a hand on his cheek, and Lestat wept all the harder for it, clinging to him as if he feared he'd be ripped away. 

It was impossible to answer, but Lestat kissed him again at last and they folded into one other.

The weeks and months after that were a blur, and they were the greatest moments of his life. Every morning, except those in which he was hunting, Lestat would find Nicolas and call him down with the same words. 

"Won't you come down and continue our conversation?" 

They talked about everything: philosophy, morality, religion, politics, all subjects on which they never agreed. But suddenly Lestat had someone with whom to share his life with, to share the outpourings of his soul, and those always found a receptive, sympathetic audience. 

At last, he told Nicolas the story about killing the wolves, about how certain he'd been that he would die and how he fought anyway. How his brother had not believed him when he'd returned. How, afterwards, all of them had seemed dull and pointless to Lestat, and he'd grown more lonely than ever. Until, of course, Nicolas had come to give him the beautiful red velvet coat as a gift for ridding the town of them. Until he'd spoken and changed everything.

Not even the cold stone walls of the keep in which he lived could dampen Lestat's joy. It was no longer a dungeon to him, not when Nicolas was there running from room to room with him, laughing as if they were children, gloriously drunk as often as not. No matter that his father shouted as he always had, that his brothers berated him. They no longer mattered.

His nights were warm, now, spent as they were in bed with his adoring companion. It no longer seemed the most terrible thing in existence to live out his life in Anjony, in the Auvergne, and never to travel the world as his mother had. Nicolas could conjure it all for him.

But, indeed, it was Nicolas who finally, inevitably, proposed that they run away together to Paris. And then it was Lestat's turn to be the pragmatic, cynical one, and Nicolas the dreamer. He didn't care if they had no money, if they had to live in the gutter, if they starved, or so he said. Why not do it all in Paris? 

When his brother Augustin was elected to represent them in the Estates-General and was sent away to Paris, Nicolas's calls for them to go became more urgent. "We are living through a different age. You've said so yourself. Don't you want to be where it's all happening? To witness the age of fear and irrationality be swept away? That's what you said you wanted, isn't it, Lestat? Or was that all talk?"

He said these things to provoke, to tease, but more often than not they only provoked Lestat into kissing him and ending 'their conversation' in a way that was mutually enjoyable. 

Of course, the inevitable could not be postponed forever. 

By the time they were finally on the diligence together with Paris as their destination, Lestat's giddy happiness had burst. His mother was dying; he may never see her again. Her only wish was that he be in Paris when she died, that he be able to escape. She had sold another of her precious jewels to give them the means to live on for a little while. Suddenly, not even Nicolas's company could take the dull edge from the world. Nicolas had done everything possible to cheer him, to no avail.

Even the travel, which he'd expected would provide some novelty, felt monotonous and pointless. Lestat spent most of his time staring aimlessly out the window of their compartment, while Nicolas held his hand or leaned against him and murmured, "It will pass. I promise, it will pass."

The nights were only a little better. Lestat spent them weeping or shouting with bitter rage in Nicolas's arms, while Nicolas stroked his hair and kissed his tears until they were both exhausted and fell asleep at last.

Only their arrival in Paris drew back the curtain of gloom. The city was just as Nicolas had described it, teeming with life in a way that was almost incomprehensible to the wolfkiller from the rural Auvergne. One could live in the city for a lifetime and never know all the people who lived in his quarter, not least because they were moving in and out.

"Tu te marqueras comme étant provincial," said Nicolas in his Parisian French, "si tu continues à tout fixer bouche bée."⁷ But there was warmth and relief in his eyes, too, that Lestat's despair had passed just as he said.

"Won't I already look provincial?" Lestat trailed after Nicolas, carrying both of their trunks, as he led the way through loud, winding streets. He felt suddenly a little embarrassed of himself. "In my clothes, for one thing?"

Nicolas turned to survey Lestat critically, walking backwards as if he knew the street they were now on just as well as he knew the little village of Tournemire, or even the streets of the nearby city of Aurillac. Lestat had to imagine he was showing off, but it delighted him anyway.

"Is that what you'd like to spend all our money on? Fine fabrics?"

But Lestat shook his head. "No. First, you've got to find us somewhere to live. Somewhere very modest, so that our money will last longer. And then I want to eat good Parisian bread and drink fine wine. And after that, to see a performance at the Comédie-Française."

Nicolas laughed, and Lestat's heart fluttered at the sight of his broad smile. A moment later, Nicolas tripped over a crate that someone had left in the narrow street and almost fell backwards into the mud, a near disaster for the violin that was strapped to his back. Then they were both laughing, but at last Nicolas oriented himself forwards and put his arm around Lestat's shoulders. "Well, you can't go to the Comédie-Française dressed as you are."

This was the first time Nicolas had ever drawn attention to the disparity between them, had ever indicated that Lestat's aristocratic heritage was not enough to make up for his lack of wealth. Lestat colored and found his eyes drawn to the beautiful embroidery on Nicolas's coat. And this was his traveling coat. 

"Qu'ai de far, Coco?"⁸ Thus far, he had only used the nickname when they were at their most affectionate with one another. Now it felt like a plea for equality on the basis of their intimacy.

It worked. Nicolas softened and squeezed his shoulder. "It's not so grave. You'll wear my clothes. I'll let some of the seams out and they'll fit you well enough. You'll look very handsome, especially with your fine shoes."

"You would do that for me?"

"Of course. It's nothing to me, Lestat. In fact, I insist."

Though this didn't exactly make him feel less self-conscious, Lestat was nonetheless touched by Nicolas's offer. He hid a shy smile and nodded his head. "I'd like to see what I look like in them, at least. But first, where will we live?"

"I had a fine relationship with my landlord when I used to live here. I had good rooms in the Île de la Cité, although the other tenants were a little loud. That suits us just fine, it means I won't be thrown out for playing my violin. We should try there. It's just across the bridge, ahead."

"That won't be expensive?" Lestat picked up his pace a little, though, their trunks feeling less heavy in his arms.

"Not if we live on one of the upper floors."

The townhouse at which they applied had an opening on the sixth floor and was managed by a couple who seemed pleasant enough and didn't ask any questions about their situation. The stairs up to their room creaked abominably, however, and when Nicolas threw open their door and stepped inside, he gestured with a flourish to the room in front of them. It was smaller than their old room at the inn had been, and entirely unfurnished save for a single, lumpy-looking bed and a small wooden basin for washing in.

"Now you see the meaning of true Parisian luxury," said Nicolas in triumphant irony.

But Lestat was in genuine awe. "We are really in Paris, Nicolas! Look, the walls—" He quickly set their trunks down and ran his hands over the plaster molding. "And the ceiling, too!" Lestat had never seen plaster walls; even the wooden walls of the inn had been enough to enchant him after a lifetime behind stone.

Nicolas quietly closed the door behind them, and when Lestat turned to look at him, he saw the most genuine fondness in his expression mixed with his amusement. "Next you will point out that we have a floor."

Lestat had not looked at the floors until Nicolas pointed them out, but they were wooden and polished almost to gleaming. He restrained himself from commenting excitedly only because Nicolas had made it clear that he would mock him for it. "Better than the paving stones you suggested we sleep on when you first proposed we come here."

Nicolas laughed, removing the violin case from his back and setting it carefully down under their bed. "There's a draft from the fireplace. We'll be cold at night."

"I beg to differ on that account," said Lestat. "But why don't we find out?" And he pulled Nicolas into a tight embrace, kissing him fiercely and maneuvering him onto the lumpy bed, which was nonetheless a little piece of heaven for the two of them. Judging by the flushed colour of Nicolas's skin by the time they were finished, Lestat supposed he could keep them very warm indeed, and in the hot summer days the draft would be a relief.

"You'd better get up," said Nicolas after a few minutes of blissful silence, "so I can get the alterations done before the light dies."

Lestat had almost forgotten about the fact that he was going to get to wear Nicolas's beautiful clothes. He leapt to his feet to do as he was told and to clean himself up at the basin. "I want a real bath, too, Nicki. Maybe tomorrow morning." 

"That would be nice," admitted Nicolas, pulling one of his finest coats from his trunk and moving the bed a little closer to the window, where he could get more light. 

"Is that what you're wearing?" asked Lestat.

"No. You."

Lestat stared. "You don't have to give me that one!" Everything in fine, soft wool, with embroidery in gold metallic thread, the coat was extravagance beyond extravagance. 

"Well, I want to. I want to see how fine you look in it. And if you say another word against it I won't give you anything at all."

Lestat didn't dare to speak, hardly dared to breathe as he let Nicolas direct him, let him drape the fabrics over him and adjust them just so. He had nothing to see the effect of it in, as his shaving glass was still in his trunk. But by the time it was all done, Nicolas was staring at him with the same awe with which Lestat had just been staring at the coat.

"How do I look?" he asked finally.

"Put on the boots I gave you," said Nicolas.

Lestat obeyed, tying his hair back with a ribbon as well and then turning slowly before Nicolas. "Well?"

"Es la mòstra verai dau beutat,"⁹ said Nicolas, French evidently having failed him.

Beaming, Lestat went for his trunk, digging out his shaving glass and making Nicolas hold the mirror so that he could see a fuller picture of himself in it. He looked like a different person, like a real aristocrat. For a moment, he felt giddy at the idea that he could become someone else entirely here in Paris.

"Suitable to visit the theatre?"

"Suitable to dance with the Queen herself, Lestat, I'm sure." Nicolas seemed exceptionally pleased with his creation, but he reluctantly pulled away to get dressed as well.

Of course, Nicolas, too, was a vision. Lestat could not keep his eyes off of him as he dressed, and he was eager to help with the smaller buttons on his coat and with his cravat. 

"You are perfection," he whispered into Nicolas's ear. "And we look wonderful together." 

No longer did Lestat feel ashamed to be seen in his several-times-mended, yellowed lace beside Nicolas's brilliant white. They were equal counterparts, now.

With their things mostly settled, Nicolas led them in the direction of the theatre and gave Lestat a little tour of the city as he did so. As he'd requested, they shared a meal of bread, stew and wine in a small establishment. Lestat was amazed by the softness and sweetness of the bread, which tasted like it had been made that very day.

"It probably has been," was Nicolas's simple reply when Lestat said aloud what he was thinking. 

"You say that like it's nothing, Nicki, but I know you've eaten bread that was baked three months prior and enjoyed it, just as I have."

Nicolas only shook his head and looked fond. "It's not nothing. It's good bread. It's true that I never appreciated it the way you are now. But now that you've illuminated it, it looks grander. See, Lestat, that's why I need you. You illuminate everything for me. There is a light that shines out of you."

Flattering as this idea was, Lestat shook his head. It had been Nicolas, after all, who had lit up the world again for Lestat on two separate occasions. 

"I need you, too," he answered, and Nicolas gave him an indulgent smile.

"For now."

A few hours later, Lestat sat eagerly before the stage of the Comédie-Française, squeezing Nicolas's hand. The show that evening was Le Bourru Bienfaisant, a short prose comedy about a stern but fundamentally good man whose disagreeable attitude nearly brought ruin to his family. Lestat was awed by the costumes, by the poise of the actors on stage. It made him want to perform again, as he had as a young man when he'd tried to run away with a group of traveling players and had learned the commedia dell'arte. Lestat's opinion was not shared by Nicolas, who complained almost the entirety of the way back home to their apartment.

"It seemed to me better suited to the little boulevard theatres than to the great stage of the Comédie-Française. We've spent ten percent or more of our money on those tickets and didn't even hear a bit of decent verse for it." Nicolas was irritated enough that he didn't want to hold Lestat by the arm. 

"The boulevard theatres?"

"Yes, there's a little collection of them on the outskirts of the city. They evolved from the fairground spectacles, like the ones that used to come through our part of the country every year."

Like the players that Lestat had run away with. "And you say they perform plays like the one we just watched?"

"Sometimes, yes. They aren't strictly speaking supposed to perform plays at all, but the specifics change every year. But very often they are just like that."

"So they're worth visiting, then? Maybe we should go tomorrow?"

Nicolas could no longer hold onto his vexation. Instead he laughed and shook his head in exasperation at Least. 

It was oppressively dark by the time they arrived at their little apartment and took the creaking stairs up to the sixth floor. It was even darker inside, since they hadn't purchased any candles while they'd been out. There was a lingering dread that crept into Lestat's heart now that he was no longer distracted by lights of the stage and the novelty of everything in Paris, but he was also exhausted enough that he fell into bed directly after undressing.

"Thank you, Nicki. I'm sorry you didn't like the play, but today was marvelous for me."

Nicolas joined him almost immediately thereafter, melding easily into his arms. "No, no, don't apologize. I thought you'd be disappointed when Paris wasn't as grand as you imagined it to be back at home."

"It's grander. It's better than I imagined, living here with you." Lestat kissed Nicolas deeply, drawing him in closer. "Je t'aime." The words he'd wanted to say the very first evening they'd spent together.

"T'aimi," answered Nicolas, a smile softening his face. Of course, he was right; it sounded better in Auvernhat.

"Tanben t'aimi."¹⁰

1. (French) "I, too, am impossible, Monsieur. Only the impossible can do the impossible."
2. (French) "What was it like, Monsieur, killing the wolves?"
3. (French) "Why don't you tell me what it was like in Paris, Monsieur?"
4. (French) "Is... I mean, do you dream sometimes, my- Monsieur?"
5. (Occitan) "Whatever you say, Lestat. Do you still dream of running away?"
6. (Occitan) "Lestat, why are you crying?"
7. (French) "You'll mark yourself as provincial if you keep gaping at everything."
8. (Occitan) "What am I to do, Coco?"
9. (Occitan) "You are the very vision of beauty."
10. (French) "I love you."
       (Occitan) "I love you."
       (Occitan) "I love you, too."