Paris, France. New Year's Eve, 1999

He was still. The world around him exploded in sound and color, ripples of it playing off of his face as he stood atop the Eiffel Tower, watching humanity change. A cold wind pulled at his coat, throwing strands of his dark hair (and yes, it was dark again, the dye having long ago faded) into his eyes.

Tom Cruise, the vampire, greeted the new century.

It had to be France, of course. It could be nowhere else. France, Paris, the start of so much. The end of so many.

200 years ago, what a start *that* had been. And now he was here too.

He was alone, which he liked. It was quite a feat, considering the circumstances, but it was a trick a Hollywood player like him could manage in a heartbeat.

It wouldn't be long before he couldn't play those tricks anymore. Tom could feel that, constantly tracked it in the part of his brain that forever puzzled, analyzed, planned, *prepared*. Time had passed. He would soon be middle aged. And even in a world of plastic surgery and special effects the world around you could only be fooled for so long.

The sky turned blue in the light of an explosion that thundered right above him. Below him, the crowds cheered. Tom did not look up, his hands growing cold on the railing, his body no longer feeling the warmth of his food, his *kill*, within his veins. In his mind, he saw the passage of time, the years stretching out in a long road before him, and wondered where on the line would come the time when cold no longer mattered. It came, he knew, to the old ones. They felt no temperature, unless they chose to.

Ah, the old ones. Where were they, he wondered. Were they out, marking the day as he was? A new century. Did any of them even care? What was one century, in a history of millennia? Time probably had no meaning to those who could only see traces of their mortality locked away in the history museums of today.

Mortality. He was mortal once. He could remember it still, though he wondered when (not if) he would forget. He remembered planning for this night, years ago. Choosing locations, choosing celebrations, choosing friends, making sure that he knew where he would be when time passed and the world refused to end.

The silence around him could be maddening, if he gave it a chance. The wind moved faster, coming to life in the empty space behind him, whistling through the bars of the Tower.

For hours he stood there, never moving, always watching. He stood there, he joked to himself, for literally years. The thought produced a weak smile, but it was enough. He had never had a taste for being excessively morbid.

He relaxed, just a bit. He broke out of his stance and looked around him. He could hear the parties below him, their noise traveling on the wind. He wondered when the celebrations would stop, though he liked the life within them. The energy from them lifted him, somehow. He let himself savor the sensations before finally, slowly, he made his way to the elevator and pushed the button to take him down to the streets below.

As the crowds swept past him he sunk into his thoughts once more. His inner calculator tallied the minutes again, keeping track of how long he could stay in Paris, with the rest of his life still waiting for him. He didn't want to leave, just yet. He liked the city, he found, though he'd never really been in it much before. He resolved to make the most of it. The most, that is, that Tom Cruise could.

The calculator was put aside and a scheduler brought forth. The time had to be used wisely and there was, as always, business to conduct. He abandoned the tally in his mind, pulling a thin leather filofax out of his deep coat pocket and searching through it to find the day and the notes he'd made earlier to remind himself of all the duties he knew he could not forget.

It was then, his eyes down on the page in front of him, that he bumped into a moving wall of grey. His head jerked up, ready to either apologize to or destroy the intruder, depending upon the other man's reaction.

It took a moment for realization to dawn, for both of them.

"My God," Lestat whispered, frozen in shock for the span of two breaths before his body gave way to the start of a laughing fit. "Please tell me your French has improved!"

Tom blinked, then grinned his infamous, mega-watt grin, slipping easily into Russian. "Yes, but it's such an *ugly* language."

Lestat laughed harder, wrapping his arms around himself to hold his coat closed, though not before Tom could catch a glimpse of his Armani suit. "Say 'cherie'."

"Oh go to Hell." Lestat's laughing fit was beginning to become contagious.

"Sha--"

"*Really* go to Hell."

Lestat was positively dancing in laughter. He removed the gold-rimmed glasses that had been covering his eyes, smiling at Tom. "Happy New Year, you pompous ass."

Tom smiled back, still not quite certain he was truly having this conversation. "Happy New Year to you too. It's... good to see you."

"You too," Lestat paused, seeming to consider something for a moment. "Do you have time?" He gestured in the direction of the sidewalk. "Would you care to join me for a while?"

Tom's answer required no thought. "Yes. Please. I'd like that."

Lestat nodded. "Good. A moment?" He turned, calling a few words in French to a group of men standing not far from them, all of whom looked similar to Lestat who, Tom decided, belonged properly on the cover of GQ. Explanations taken care of, Lestat turned his attention back to Tom, motioning for him to join him as he walked away from the Tower.

Tom settled on the first question that came to mind. "'Gregory?'" It had been what the other men had called him.

"Gregory Michaelson," Lestat said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket in a liquid gesture. "My card."

Tom glanced at the writing on it before slipping the card into his own pocket. "Doing a little corporate raiding?"

"Monetary wheeling and dealing. Making sure things stay on track. Some things require a personal touch."

"So that's why you've got the get-up."

"Get-up? Ah," Lestat glanced down at himself and, in a gesture that Tom would have, in anyone else, described as self-conscious, folded up the glasses he was carrying and hid them away inside of his coat. "Yes."

Tom tried for safer ground. "How's Louis?"

"Why--" Lestat's eyes glowed fire, and it was Tom's vampire sight alone that let him see the flash of confusion, then the fading of the deadly light that had touched Lestat's face. "Of course. You wouldn't know, would you? Forgive me. Louis is... not here, right now."

"I see," Tom said. Then, in the hopes of somehow evening out whatever it was he had just done to create such anger, he offered "Brad's in California."

Lestat looked at him. It was, again, a movement too fast for a mortal's eyes to have seen. In the back of his mind Tom wondered if any human ever realized how mute language truly was, without this symphony of expression to show everything words could not. "Is that where you make your home now?" Lestat finally asked him.

"Me? Occasionally."

The golden eyebrows lifted. "Not always?"

"I travel," Tom grinned. "Monetary wheeling and dealing. You know how it goes."

There was the smile Tom had hoped for. The grey eyes looked Tom over again. "You've kept it long."

Tom blinked, then ran a hand through his hair, realizing what Lestat had meant. "Might as well. It's still in fashion and I don't care for nightly visits to the barber just yet."

"It's dark again."

Tom smiled, raising an eyebrow of his own. "You sound disappointed."

Lestat met his gaze. And it wasn't until he returned Tom's smile that he realized how flirtatious it had been. "Maybe I am." He turned, looking ahead of them towards the street. "There's my car."

The abruptness of this ending almost distracted Tom from noticing the sheer size of the stretch limousine Lestat had been referring to. "You're going?"

"I must," Lestat said, taking his glasses out of his coat again. He gave Tom another grin. "You know how it is: places to go, people to see." He moved to put the glasses back on, but stopped, holding them for just a moment, then looking up at Tom again. "It was.... Happy New Year, Tom."

Tom's mind whirled, taking in every bit of information before him. Somewhere, in his head, came the observation that Lestat had slipped back into French, although Tom could not accurately remember when precisely that had happened. "I've never heard you speak French before," he said, feeling stupid while doing so but unable to help himself, so rich was the sound he was hearing.

There, again, was a true Lestatian smile. "I haven't heard it from you yet, either." He grinned, then turned, slipping the glasses back on as he headed toward the limousine and, at the same time, slipping back into his earlier persona so easily that Tom swore he could see the air around Lestat shimmer. He stood there, silent once more, as he watched the car door take Lestat away from his view and continued watching until the hulking black limo vanished from his sight.

It was only after the car had moved away that Lestat allowed himself to breathe.

A short breath, at first, then deeper, keeping them even until he was certain that he could take out everything inside of him as long as he kept on taking these deep, sweeping breaths.

God, he could still feel it.

No.

He counted. His breath stayed even. He breathed deeper, trying to reach far enough inside of him to touch the sensations that had started the minute--

Un, deux. Trois, quatre.

The voice in his head was softer. :The minute Tom made you laugh.:

He breathed harder. He listened to his breath.

Cinq, six. Sept, huit. Neuf, deux.

No, dix.

God, his fingertips were tingling.

He made it go away. He willed it, simply, away. The car moved on beneath him, the warm filtered air filled his lungs, the streets near his apartment came into view.

Un, deux. Trois, quatre. Cinq, six. Sept, huit. Neuf, dix.

The air around him was cold as he stepped outside. His breath turned smoky, swirling around him.

He didn't notice.

Tom stared at the cell phone in his hand. He glanced at the hotel clock, then nodded, satisfied the time difference hadn't failed him. He pressed speed dial, then waited.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Brad."

"Tom!" There was a pause. Tom could almost see Brad looking at his own clock, making the same calculations Tom just had. "Happy New Year. You made it, huh?"

"Yeah, I made it. One century down, God knows how many to go."

The pause was longer this time.

Tom waited until he couldn't stand it any longer. "How are you?"

"Good as I can be. As usual. So you're in Paris?"

"Yes. Watched the whole thing from the Eiffel Tower. It was quite a show."

The pause was kinder, this time. "I'm sorry you had to see it by yourself."

Tom would wonder, later, why he hadn't simply answered "Me too." Instead his lips formed another response entirely. "I did run into an old friend, after I left."

"Anyone good?"

"Lestat."

Tom could feel the phone turn to ice in his hand.

"Brad?"

"Jesus, Tom! What the Hell is wrong with you?"

"He is a friend!"

"Yeah," Brad's voice was preternaturally cold, "Some fucking friend."

"Brad, let's not do this again."

"I'm not the one obsessing over the son of a bitch."

"Brad!"

"So you're going to tell me there's another reason why you're all the way over in France?"

"I didn't come here to meet him. You know that."

"And you're cursing your bad luck now that you have. What did his royal highness want with your life this time?"

"Nothing. We talked, then he left. Alone."

"So he left you alone, did he? Nothing ever changes with them, does it?"

Tom's voice dropped to new temperatures all its own. "Nor us either, it would seem."

Tom could hear Brad take in a sharp hiss of breath. There was another, longer, deadly silent pause. Tom refused to end it. It was Brad, finally, who spoke, his voice softer than before. "Are you going to see him again?"

"Does it matter?"

"Don't give me that shit, Cruise! You damn well know it does!"

"Maybe."

"Don't, Tom. Turn your back and *don't*."

"He didn't seem right."

"Do you think he cares? Do you think any of them care? You know what they're like, Tom. Do you think he gives a damn about what his pissant little problems do to the rest of the world?"

"He's not like that."

"They're *all* like that."

"Not all of them."

"*All* of them." The preternatural chill was back. "And I should know."

Tom winced. "Brad, please."

"Tom, God damn it," Brad sighed. "I'm just trying to save your ass. Please. Don't do this."

"It hardly matters. Like you said, he doesn't plan his life around me."

"Try to take that as a hint."

"Must this be such a war?"

"Ask *them*."

Tom bit down a sarcastic reply. "I meant, between *us*."

Brad's voice was soft. "I wish it didn't have to be."

"Me too."

"I'm sorry, Tom. Thomas. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year to you too, William."

"Don't call me William" Brad whispered as the phone clicked off.

Gregory Michaelson was a businessman, and a rich one.

This was the sum of knowledge that was available to the world and it was, for the world, all that was needed.

Gregory did business. Gregory did *good* business.

On the night of New Year's Eve, he hosted a party which began on the Eiffel Tower and ended in his apartment. The food was rich, the music good, the contacts even better.

And if there was, in this crowd, someone who noticed how handsome Gregory was and used it as cause to wonder why he was not married, no one mentioned it.

Likewise it was not mentioned that all his social engagements had business ties. Or that, in truth, few people had ever seen him smile.

Gregory did business. It was all he ever did.

It was interesting, Tom thought, how even years after the fact Antonio still spoke like a smoker.

"What I would like to know," and here he would have taken a quick puff, "is why you even care."

"Call it curiosity," Tom was glad the phone prevented Antonio from seeing his expressions. As it was, this conversation revealed too much.

"Alright, curiosity," slow exhale out, "Louis is gone."

Tom took a moment to fully absorb this. "Dead?"

"Ha! Do you think Lestat would still be around if he was?" inhale, exhale, pause to tap the excess ashes. Antonio was probably fiddling with a pen. "No, he just left."

"They broke up?"

"No, and that is the strange thing," inhale, exhale while talking, "to all reports they were still very much an 'item'."

"Then why did he leave?"

"Wouldn't you?" inhale, exhale, stab the cigarette out, start thinking about having another. "Lestat is not exactly an easy man to live with, you know. And all of our little amusements hardly helped."

"A vacation then."

"Of a kind."

"Where did he go?"

"No one knows. Probably to ground."

"When?"

"Three years ago," pause to tap down tobacco then lift a new one to his lips. "Tom, stay out of it."

"Why? You clearly haven't."

"I hear things, that is all. *You* would do something about it."

"So why tell me this?"

"To keep you from going to Lestat himself. He is not your friend, Tom. And you know what it is like between them and us."

"You don't seem to care."

"*I* am not in love with Brad."

"This has nothing to do with him."

"Doesn't it? I see. Everything to do with Lestat, then? Just like in New Orleans?"

"Perhaps."

"Barely five years a vampire and already you live in the past. You know what they say about vampires who cannot adapt to the future, Tom."

"'They' say a lot of things. It does not mean I care."

"And so you persist in this anyway. God help you, Tom. You'll need it."

Lestat was asleep when the announcement came that he had a visitor. He'd drifted off among stacks of papers and figures, all of which carried a name on them which was not, really, his own but would do for now.

He wiped his eyes. Had he been dreaming? Impossible, he rarely did. But he was almost certain he had. He stood, straightening his tie and looking for his glasses.

Dark hair? Had that been in his dream?

He shrugged into his suit jacket, then turned to face himself in the mirror, smoothing out his hair.

Lips. Someone had been speaking to him. Or was it him to them?

He shook his head, jerking back from the mirror sharply. This was more thought than he liked to give anything. He gave himself one final brush over then went out to face his guest.

"Bon soir," Tom said, grinning as he held up the business card that Lestat had given him the other night. "You forgot something."

Of all the emotions that ran over Lestat's face, the one which captured Tom's attention most was the startled look in Lestat's eyes.

Which were once again covered by glasses.

"Did something happen?" Tom asked, moving forward for a closer look and seeing his own concern mirrored back at him in the golden frames.

"Happen?" Lestat stepped back, frowning at him in return until he understood the meaning of Tom's words. He took the glasses off hastily, holding them up to the light for Tom to see. "No. Only modern technology at work. They've a tint in them. It keeps me from trancing mortals by accident." He grinned, suddenly. "As well as blocks harmful UV rays."

Tom laughed, the outburst of sound surprising himself. "God forbid. May I?" He took the glasses, placing them over his own eyes then looked around to find his reflection in a mirror against the wall.

Lestat's face appeared beside his, studying him. "I like you better in Ray Bans."

"I like you better without these."

As Lestat's eyes met his own in the mirror, Tom wondered when his chest had tightened so.

Lestat stepped closer, still watching. "You seem unsettled."

Tom turned, holding the glasses back out to him. "Can we go outside? For a walk? Please."

Lestat's smile was both fire and ice to his veins. "I'd like that."

A light snow came down around them. Tom watched it as it fell with a hiss into the river. Out of the corner of his eye he could see it dusting the long black overcoat Lestat was wearing. He stopped, suddenly, looking at him. "Are you warm enough?"

Lestat's smile held laughter, but it was not mocking. "Oui. I prefer being much warmer, of course, but that you know. And you?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I -- " Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture. If Lestat noticed it, he said nothing. "I'm sorry. I seem to have left my ability to keep a coherent thought back in America."

"It's alright. New Years are like that." Lestat smiled. "Particularly this one."

"Yes! Exactly." Tom moved closer, his hands becoming animated as he talked. "I can feel it even though it shouldn't really mean anything. I haven't touched fifty yet but I feel like I've hit my first century. Hell, my first millennium."

"Me too," Lestat's voice made this a none-too-guilty secret.

"You too?"

"Yes," Lestat looked off, his expression thoughtful. "Centuries I know. I've only a few but...." he shrugged. "This, however, I like. It pleases me to be here."

"Why?"

The grin was pure Lestat. "Because it means I'll probably be here that much longer."

Tom laughed, his hand hitting Lestat's shoulder in a sign of recognition. "Yes! We're both Children of the Millennia now, aren't we?"

Lestat's eyes became sly and lightly teasing behind his glasses. "Some of us more child-like than others."

"Some more ancient and decrepit too," Tom met his expression dead on.

Lestat's laughter was truly rewarding. "Pompous ass, Mr. Cruise. Pompous ass." He frowned suddenly. "Should I call you that? Are you still... yourself?"

Tom nodded, tempted to look back to the river but still meeting Lestat's grey eyes . "For a while. I'm doing all I can with it. In a few years, though?" He shrugged.

"I remember," Lestat said softly, reaching to touch Tom's arm in turn. "It was easier for me. All I knew died. Only I was left."

Tom did not step away. "I don't think that's easier."

Lestat's eyes blinked rapidly, registering more emotions than Tom could count. "No," he said, finally, relaxed once more. "No, it wasn't."

"I'm sorry."

"Please." Lestat stepped away, holding his hand up between them.

Tom sought out his eyes again. "Lestat?"

"Tom, please," Lestat sat down on a nearby bench, his hands efficiently brushing away the snow. "Surely there are better things to talk about?"

Tom stood directly in front of him. "I don't think so."

The grey eyes turned steel. "There are better things."

Tom found steel all his own. "Only if they do not hurt you."

Once again Lestat's eyes blurred with emotion. He sprang up from the bench appearing, if one had mortal sight, by magic alongside the river.

Tom stood where he was, watching him. After several moments had passed, he made his way to Lestat's side, walking slowly by even mortal standards. Once there, he watched the river, keeping Lestat a golden haze in his eyes until he choose to speak.

"Do you have family with you, here in Paris?" Lestat's voice was husky, but strong.

Tom felt the hair on his arms lift. He gripped the railing, wondering if Lestat noticed this. "No. I couldn't go back to mortal life. And Brad...."

"Is in California," Lestat finished for him, mercifully.

Tom looked at him. He was stunned to see how the grey eyes could become such a soft violet. "Yes. Brad's in California."

Lestat nodded, smiling in such a slow, peaceful manner that Tom could not help but smile in return. "So it is only us, it seems."

"And business."

"Ah yes, business." Lestat looked out into the river, thoughtful once more. "Tom, will you join me?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow night," Lestat's expression was undefinable, but not unpleasant. "If you are free. I - Gregory, that is - have tickets for a performance. It's all business, really, and hideously dull. But, perhaps, with the right company...?"

"I could enjoy it," Tom smiled.

"So could I." Soft violet became a dancing blue as Lestat smiled once more. "Thank you."

Had he lost his mind?

He wondered this, frequently, as the night gave way to the next.

Why had he done it? Why had he invited Tom?

He slept restlessly that day. He hated that. He woke feeling feverish, which he also hated.

Business was conducted poorly. He was late for his own visitors, still dressing as they came. And as they talked, he found he didn't want to listen. And this, too, he did not like.

Had he? *Why* had he?

Because, as the voice in his head knew, he didn't not like Tom.

"Strange," Tom said, frowning a bit as he stood beside Lestat in the crowded theatre lobby some hours later.

"What?"

Tom looked up, shaking himself out of something as he did. "I'm usually recognized three times over by now. I'm not used to this sort of thing." He gestured at the crowd.

"I'm sorry, did you want recognition?"

"No, I--" Tom frowned, *looking* at him, then smiling. "You?"

Lestat grinned. Tom's smiles truly carried their own voltage. "I'm sorry. It comes naturally. I can stop, if you like."

"No," Tom was made to stand closer still. "I know more about these people than I'd ever like to, but I don't mind."

"Good." Lestat took Tom's arm, gently steering them both towards the stairs and their box. "Let's get out of this anyway. I doubt either of us needs refreshments and I don't want to discuss shop anymore."

"Still don't have the American vernacular down pat yet, do you?."

Lestat was caught by a small laughing fit. "Shut up! God you're a pompous ass."

Tom's grins were getting brighter. He took Lestat's arm this time, doing his best to find their box for them, frowning at his half of the tickets. "What are we here to see anyway?"

"Marin Marais," Lestat said. Adding, as though it explained all, "He's French."

"Of course."

Lestat laughed harder. Tom, still leading, joined him.

Lestat, Tom was reminded, lived like a God.

It was hard to define, but felt all the same. There was something in the way that the attendants hovered about him, and the way his business associates deferred to him and, most importantly, the way they all vanished when Lestat did not want them around anymore.

Tom had to admit, he liked knowing that it was possible to command this kind of power even when the world only saw the name of a plain man, like Gregory Michaelson.

Lestat grinned, "Money talks."

"Stop reading my thoughts."

"I don't have to."

They both grew silent after that.

Not long after that Tom discovered that Lestat truly did sleep at the theatre. He had, Tom decided, perfected the art of it. He sat in such a manner of attentive repose that, in truth, even Tom had not noticed when he was not conscious anymore.

Until Lestat woke up.

And this, Tom was certain, only he would have noticed.

His body stayed the same, but his grey eyes were very much open. And focused.

It was the music which did it. Or perhaps encouraged it. Lestat's eyes were like lasers upon the stage as a new song began, his hands turning only slightly paler at the bones where he gripped the armrests of his chair, his breathing was not the same.

The song continued, the music spiraling in the air around them.

Tom watched him. Ignoring the music, dismissing and discouraging anyone who might look their way, Tom did not take his eyes off of Lestat.

Lestat's lips parted, and his breath grew deeper and faster. He stood, finally, moving to the edge of their box, his hands resting on the railing, his eyes never leaving the stage.

Tom stood as well, standing behind but still near to him.

How long this lasted Tom could not say. He was aware, long after the fact, that the song had ended.

Some time after that, Lestat turned to look at him. His eyes looked hollow.

"Tom," he whispered. It was all he said before he vanished.

He was alone. And he wanted to stay that way.

He'd dismissed his servants, which he might later admit was an extreme gesture on his part, but for the moment pleased him greatly.

He wanted no one. He needed nothing.

He was, after all, the most self-sufficient of any of them. How many could do as much as he? How many would even dare?

On his own, he could shake up the world.

His fingertips tapped the armrest of his chair as he sat, looking out at nothing in particular from the grand window of his sitting room. It was, he knew, a nervous gesture.

He dismissed it, though it didn't stop.

But this didn't matter. These were small things.

His other hand began to tremble.

That was too much.

He pushed himself back in his chair, pulling in a deep breath, forcing down anything which would not do as he wanted.

He'd begun to recover when a voice interrupted him.

"Lestat?"

This, too, needed forcing down.

"Tom, go away."

"No."

His body coiled then snapped with tension. He stood, moving towards the window and placing his hands against the cold glass. "Tom, please."

"Why?"

His hand hit the window frame. "Why do you think?"

Tom refused to flinch. "I don't know why, Lestat. Why don't you tell me?"

He wanted to fight him. He wanted to lash out, see the anger in those damned green eyes and watch him turn away. He wanted....

He wanted.

He could feel the tears slip down his cheeks. Next was Tom's hand on his shoulder.

"Lestat?"

He tasted salt. "Tom, please."

"Why?"

He looked up through a haze of blood. "I can't."

"Why?"

Lestat sunk to the floor, his head leaden and dizzy. His hand struck the wall. His voice was soft. "I need to do this."

Tom knelt beside him, not touching. "This?"

He made an angry gesture around the room. "This. All of it."

Realization finally came. "It's all for him, isn't it?"

"Do you think it would matter this much if it wasn't?"

"For how long?"

"Ever since he left."

"And until he comes back." Tom was silent for a moment, then looked up, meeting his eyes. "Lestat, I don't want to get in the way of this. I'm not trying to."

"Good."

"But I want to stay."

"Why?" It was a snort of derision.

"Why do *you* think?"

Lestat felt that like a lash against his back. His head bowed, silently.

It was Tom's voice, finally, that was soft. "I care for you, Lestat."

Lestat's fingernails drew blood from his palms.

"Don't," Tom was on him at once, taking Lestat's hands in his and studying the damage. "God, why do you do this to yourself? No, don't tell me. I already know."

"And yet you still `care' for me." It was meant to hurt.

Tom looked up, his gaze as strong as it could be. "Yes. I do."

"You love a bastard."

"I don't think so."

"Oh?"

The eyes held courage. "A bastard would forget Louis."

"Isn't having you here enough?"

"No," the earnest nature was back again, "I'm not a replacement for Louis. I'm not the biggest love of your life and you know it. You're not the love of my life and I know it."

Lestat tilted his head curiously. "So what, M. Cruise, is left?"

Tom's fingertips touched his wrists. "This. Whatever it is."

He wanted to make another cutting remark, but found he couldn't. "Tom, why does it matter?" He turned his hand to reveal his wedding ring. "I'm still half the man I was."

Tom, to his surprise, revealed one in turn. "We both are, Lestat."

"And you think being with me will help?"

"I know being with you is better than anything I know, or can do."

"This greatly depends on my caring for you, doesn't it?"

The result was expected. Tom pulled back, just a little. "Yes. It does."

Lestat held his hands firmly, keeping his eyes on Tom's. "And if I told you that I did?"

He felt the faintest tremor in Tom's body. "Do you?"

Lestat made his smile deliciously slow. "Since the moment I first met you outside of Rue Royale."

The grin was blinding. "Good."

Lestat shook his head. "Don't be so sure. The fact of it is I care too much."

"I don't think that's possible."

"Truly? Even though I wanted to claim you as my Child at first sight? Even though I wanted to do everything to you that has destroyed your life? Even though being with me now will tear you from Brad even more?" Lestat moved forward, cupping Tom's face and holding it tight as he came close. "And even though despite our friendship there are times when I lie awake in a Hell of desire for you so bad I can think of nothing else?"

Tom matched his strength, never wavering. "I pursued you from the moment I could. I wanted the Gift and I choose it long before you offered it to me. I only knew I wanted it from you." It was Tom's smile, now, which was wonderfully slow. "Just as, at times, I want you too. I can't deny you, Lestat. I never could."

"And Brad?"

Tom took a shaky breath. "He is my Louis."

Lestat nodded, accepting this. "Will you go back to California?"

"Can you come with me?"

"Non. That is to say not for long."

"Then we'll stay here."

Lestat gave a small grin. "`We'?"

Tom matched it perfectly. "Oui."

"Your accent's still wretched."

"Then teach me."

Lestat shook his head, touching Tom's face again. "You truly are --"

"Pompous?"

"I was going to say amazing but that too."

Tom laughed. The sound was blissfully genuine.

Lestat smiled, watching him. He gave himself a moment to think as Tom's laughter warmed him. He thought of the time, and the past. He thought of Louis and he thought of Tom.

Finally, still smiling, he moved forward and kissed him.

The end