Disclaimer: This is a piece of non-profit fan fiction and is not meant to infringe on the copyright of Anne Rice or her publishers.
Spoilers: Uh, IWTV, I guess.
Ratings: G

Guess I should just post this and get it out of my system. I'm pretty sure it's Lestat narrating about Louis on a lonely Valentines day, er night. Comments welcome =).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Valentines Day and I could speak of a million things, but I wish to speak of only one. The obssession with which I am obssessed, a creature who is beautiful, intelligent, serene and such the elegant gentleman. He wears the mask of death, of sorrow, of joy so content that it seems only natural for him to be all these things, but not. There's a distance in which he views the world as if he were examining and marveling at it from under a microscope, yet he's so enrapt that he looses himself and becomes part of it. Did those words actually make sense? His face bares no lines of age yet hollow shadows imprint themselves underneath his eyes and slant in great contrasts heightening his cheekbones, giving an almost ravenous look to his features. One would think his face would look detached and void of emotion, but he reflects all emotion so purely and beautifully that my heart either breaks or speeds up whenever I see these feelings mirrored back to me. His expressions are animate and enhanced due to the crescent hollows placed beautifully on his face, and I'd like so much to kiss them away but I realize it'd take away from his solemn features. No, actually that's a lie. Taking away anything from him wouldn't make him any less the radiant being that he is.

There are tricks I play. I love to see him squirm just for the rage that flashes across his face, and I agitate him whenever possible for the sake of glimpsing those eyes ablaze and that nervous hand raking delicously through his veil of hair like black satin. There are also ways to have him cry, but I'd never dare do such a thing! To think it cruel would be an understatement, to see those pink tinged blood tears welling up and rolling down his cheeks in rivers would be heartbreaking and too cruel. The only tears I wish to see shed from him are tears of joy, perhaps from my company.

To me he's a lover, a brother, and an unearthly god I worship at the pew who has come to grace my life with meaning and shed some light. I don't think he truly fully can conceive of how much an impact he has on me, therefore at times it's so hurtful when he shuns and turns away from me. He merely thinks I'm a companion who whines too much in his presence; he doesn't realize it's all done for show. I don't blame him for treating me like he does,so unfeeling at times, because I most likely deserve it.

I'm positive it's his personality that draws me to him, though his looks are a good plus. His personality is one opposite mine but isn't it said that opposites attract? Yes, it's true. We cannot be seperated for any long length of time; maybe that's just how it is with the maker and the fledgling, but I believe there's more to it. Not one day goes by that he doesn't cross my mind and I'm sure it's the same with him, be it good thoughts or bad. There's always his lingering voice in the back of my head like some distant dream, or his scent the perfume of old books and threadbare clothes that won't leave me. It's absolutly maddening that he seems to be there but he's not and I can't hold him in my arms, can't protect him at all times.

I sent him flowers once. When I couldn't see him last Valentines day, I sent him a dozen red roses. Do you know what he did with them? He discarded them, leaving them there to wither and die on the steps of his run-down little apartment. I felt my heart crack that time and every other time he neglected my little gifts, but like I said, I probably deserved it. There were other times when my endeavors worked. Once I placed an emerald jeweled ring along with a silver chain in a gold foil wrapped miniature box, and put it on his steps. I spied on him often and found that he actually became fond of the chain for he wore it every night, but not the ring. Eventually the poor thing found its way to the dusty confines of his closet where he accidently dropped it and forgot about it. Another time I sent him flowers again with a french poem inscribed on gold leaf paper, and these he kept in fresh water and the poem in one of his dusty old books. But alas, he has never given me anything. I suppose his tolerance and rare but delightful company is enough. But these trips down memory lane are even starting to bore me.

Now sitting in our old flat, completly refurnished of course, on Rue Royale living past memories and rare fleeting ghosts appearing and dissolving before my eyes is the loneliest I've been so far. The only anchor I have is him and I crave his attention, want to be lavished with his love and affection. But I cannot bring myself to fully act on these feelings. Am I such a coward? No, I suppose it's pride that makes me want him to give in and reveal himself first, but will that moment ever come to pass?

The humid air is stagnant and unbearable tonight, and I'm practically drenched in blood sweat. A shower is badly needed.

Making my way to the bathroom, I smell freesia in the air. Now where had that come from? For some odd reason my hand is shaking as I reach to turn the knob to the bathroom. Gasping, I see the tub scattered with rose petals floating gingerly on the surface, scented candles floating here and there and lining the basin and the edge of the tub, complete with a lavish drawn up freesia bubble bath. I smile to myself and glimpse a small scarlet card with silver lettering in his swooping articulate script, reading, "Have fun, mon amour. Happy Valentines Day."

So I stand corrected. He does send me gifts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, good? Bad? Oh,and, Happy Valentines Day!