"September 7th..."

“September 7th, 1960... He called me. Were you with him?"

You only nodded.

“…Did you hurt yourself?”

Lestat whispered, his voice near breaking, his whole body trembling after seventy-two long, aching years without you. The same man you once deemed narcissistic, egotistical—so full of himself, always using you—now stood before you, unraveling, raw in a way you never thought possible.

It had never been easy for Lestat to let you go, to watch you slip away into the arms of another. Not even the grandest stages, the most intoxicating performances could dull the agony of losing you. Not then, not now—not as he stood here, staring at you like you'd walked straight out of a dream he never let himself finish.

And then the truth came crashing down, tearing apart the illusions you’d clung to for decades. It wasn’t your lover who had saved you from death’s grasp all those years ago—it was Lestat. Always Lestat. And you? You’d been blind, foolish, too wrapped up in your own bitterness to see it.

He had loved you. He had always loved you.