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Louis lost count of how many books he read over the past week. Was it ten? Eleven? Fifteen, even? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t even recall the titles of the books he’d read. All the stories bled together into a single nightmare that was his life – the very thing he was trying to escape from.
As for Lestat, he was… well, he was being Lestat. His bratty self couldn’t be bothered enjoying his kills out of Louis’ sight anymore. On more than one occasion, he’d brought the prey back home, something Louis had asked him not to do countless times, and yet, there he was again, downstairs, popping champagne bottles with at least two other women. Louis could still hear their voices from the upstairs bedroom, even though the door was shut. He could hear them musing about the nature of his and Lestat’s relationship – apparently a mystery the whole town of New Orleans felt they had the right to speculate on.
He was tired. Irritated, more like. But still tired. His arms were cramping from holding his – well, actually Lestat’s – copy of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. A beautiful first edition in flawless condition he was certain he would have been able to appreciate under different circumstances. But now, he was angry. At what, he wasn’t sure. It was easy putting all the blame on Lestat, and that’s what he did most of the time. He needed to put his anger somewhere, so why not on the man who made him into the abomination that he was? A blood drinker. Someone who lived off the blood of the living. Shivers ran down his spine at that thought. More followed at the realization that it was his reality.
And he craved them. The women, downstairs. Their floral scent carried all the way up the stairs and through the gap under the door right into the bedroom. Right to Louis.
Lestat was doing it on purpose, he knew it. They always started to fight whenever the topic of Louis’ dietary choices came up. Lestat claimed he was worried, that Louis wasn’t eating well. That he was denying himself the nutrition he needed. Louis let out a huff at the mere memory of their latest fight earlier that night. He’d begged Lestat not to bring his prey back into the house, at which Lestat had reacted with one of his typical anger outbursts, shouted at him in French that he was going to bring them back for Louis’ sake, because… Louis wasn’t sure. Because brats don’t like to do as they’re told. He’d walked out of the room at that point.
Now, they were laughing, and Louis could hear Lestat’s voice, clear as day, echoing through the hallway. They were still discussing the mystery.
“Louis is my destiny. I’m always going to come back to Louis. But…” he teased, “I’m not above having some fun in the meantime.”
Louis rolled his eyes and threw the book aside. He hadn’t really been reading it, anyway.
He didn’t know what infuriated him more – Lestat’s cruelty towards innocent humans, or his infidelity. They’d been through this, multiple times. Made arrangements because Lestat wanted to fuck someone else. Good. Then Louis goes to fuck someone else and Lestat has a meltdown. Fine, no arrangement then. And now Lestat was still pulling shit like this.
His jaw clenched, he got up, opened the door and marched downstairs. He stopped by the archway, leaning against one of the marble pillars, arms crossed. They’re sitting on the couch, on one side a young lady, half undressed, her blonde curly hair flowing over her shoulders, on the other a dark-haired woman, her hand way too close to Lestat’s crotch for Louis’ liking, and Lestat in the middle, obviously pretending to ignore Louis. There was no way he didn’t hear him stomp down the stairs with his vampiric senses. Louis cleared his throat, and finally, Lestat took notice of him, his expression way too enthusiastic to be genuine.
“Louis! Finally, you join us. Come here, mon cher.”
Louis didn’t move. Instead, he stared him down, wishing he could use the mind gift on him and talk to him without making the women uncomfortable. They were innocent, after all. But he couldn’t, so with his voice as composed as he could manage, he just said, “Lestat.”
Thankfully, he got the clue and came up to him.
“I need to talk to you.”
Lestat gasped and looked back towards the women. “But we’re in the middle of something.”
Louis sighed. Fine. So he had to do it in front of them. Lestat would kill them soon, anyway, so it didn’t really matter. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Lestat seemed taken aback but decided to play dumb. “They’re pretty ladies. I saw them, and asked them if they wanted to come home with me.”
“I asked for one thing! One! Don’t bring anyone home. I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t do it in our house.”
It was a lie, like so many things he said lately. Of course he cared. Part of him was grateful the transfer of the dark gift obscured their ability to communicate telepathically, but at the same time there was nothing he wished for more than for Lestat to just understand. To hear his thoughts, and to know. To snap him out of this hell, maybe.
“Louis…” Lestat’s tone softened a little. It was barely noticeable, but Louis still caught the shift. He was not falling for it, though. His hand reached out to touch Louis’ face, but he swatted it away.
“Clean up,” Louis demanded, his voice drenched in disgust.
“I brought two,” Lestat continued, his eyebrows raised like he was making an offer Louis couldn’t possibly deny. “One for me, and…” His hand finally managed to cup his face, his thumb caressing a spot just below his bottom lip. “One for you.”
Louis’ brain caught back up with reality and he shoved his hand away again. His gaze wandered to the women. They were watching curiously.
“Or you could watch me do them both,” Lestat said, gesturing his hand the way he always did when he was trying to make a point. Poor women – they were expecting a threesome, maybe even a foursome. Little did they know Lestat wasn’t actually talking about fucking them. Or maybe he was. It was probably both, with Lestat.
Before Louis could give his obvious no, Lestat was back on the sofa, his preternatural speed scaring the girls and making them cry out. He leaned over the blonde one, his fingertips grazing her face, his eyes firm on Louis. He was provoking him. That’s what he’d been doing lately.
Louis’ rage was boiling, but he managed to swallow it down. It’s not worth it, he told himself. It was exactly what Lestat wanted. He couldn’t let him win. So he watched as Lestat claimed her with a kiss, his eyes still on Louis, searching for any little hint of jealousy in his face but finding none. His hands traveled down her breasts, and down her stomach, and right down to her butt that he grabbed through the layers of skirts she was wearing. What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. And damn Louis for craving them as much as he did. He couldn’t let Lestat know it was working. It would expose him. Give Lestat too much power. All Louis wanted to do in that moment was to shove them apart and claim Lestat himself. He wanted to drain the women dry. He was so hungry, goddamnit.
Finally, he couldn’t bear it anymore and turned around. “Going out for dinner. They better be gone when I’m back.”
He heard a sigh and then the women were screaming. The sweet scent of blood carried through the air, catching up with Louis as he was just about to exit the door. He almost turned around. Almost.
Maybe there was one thing Lestat was right about. He was weak. He had barely any self-control.
He didn’t really know where he was going. Took a left here, took a right there, but his instincts carried him straight to the swamps by the bayou. His body almost revolted at the thought of draining the giant swamp rats, or worse, settling for fish, but he’d made his choice and he was sticking to it. At this point, it was more about principle than it was about belief.
He knew he could be stubborn; his mama had let him know many times as a kid and well into adulthood, but while his life – or, immortal existence, more like – was falling apart, it was the only thing about himself he still had any control over. Barely, but he was determined not to succumb to his urges. He did not want to be the devil, did not want to be part of any of it. Sometimes he had these moments of weakness. Moments in which he considered just giving in, and these moments were usually worsened by Lestat as he made him drink from himself, and he felt the sickening pleasure that came with the taste of blood on his tongue. This pleasure, so primordial Louis was left at its mercy, unable to fight it most of the time. Just like his love for Lestat.
But even after seven years of walking this earth as an immortal being, Louis could not accept the pleasure. It was repulsive, and yet he found himself craving it. He’d have a taste, hate himself for it, then crave it. Have a taste, hate himself, crave it. Over, and over, and over again.
Just like he would fuck Lestat, hate himself, and crave it again.
No, it wasn’t quite the same. Lestat was… difficult. A lot. But he didn’t actually hate himself for loving him. But that was the problem. Loving Lestat was the reason he was in this shit in the first place. If he hadn’t fallen in love with him, then maybe things would be different now. He’d be married to some neighbor’s daughter, not happy but not unhappy, maybe he’d be a father. He’d always wanted a family.
I’m your family, Lou.
Lestat’s words echoed in his mind. The hurt in his voice as Louis had screamed at him that he took away his chance to have his own family. Of course, the more logical side of him knew he would be miserable with a wife and kids. He’d been miserable all his life. But now, he was doomed to be miserable for eternity.
The swamp rat was his penance.
He snuck up to a nest and snatched one of the nutrias and drained it dry, tossing the carcass into the river. That’ll do.
Then, he made his way back to the townhouse.
A week went by. More mindless reading. More of Lestat’s futile attempts to get a reaction out of him. More fights resulting out of it. Then, a more gentle Lestat. One that hesitated before he kissed him, a silent ask for permission. One that made love to him like he was the only one in the universe that mattered. One that made him feel loved. Seen.
The swamp rats had been downgraded to regular rats, now. Half the size of a swamp rat, it kept him full for a few hours. Lestat watched, his face in painful contortion, as he indulged in two one night.
“Lou…” His tone was pleading. “You can’t do this forever. You can’t endure like this.”
It was clear what he was actually saying. You won’t make it like this. You’ll end up going into the fire. But Louis just shot him a glare. Lestat had been through some shit, but that didn’t mean he got to dictate his dietary choices. “It’s blood, isn’t it?”
“It can’t sustain you.”
Louis shrugged as he tossed the second rat carcass into the fireplace. “I’ve been doing it for a while now, and it’s working.”
Lestat let out a sigh, then reached a hand up to his neck and made a cut on the side of it. Louis’ breath quickened and he felt his fangs protract again.
“Here.” Lestat put an arm around Louis’ waist, guiding him to straddle his lap. Then he started to unbutton his vest, then his shirt, all for easier access, but the white collar was already getting stained with blood drops. Louis didn’t need to be asked to bring his mouth to his neck, sucking it up, letting his godforsaken nature guide him. His hands ran down Lestat’s bare chest and he pressed himself closer, drinking more blood, that sweet, sweet nectar of life that gives life to the living and gives life to the dead, more, and more, humming against Lestat’s skin in response to a moan, and then he was kissing his mouth, leaving bloodstains all over it, drawing more blood as he accidentally caught his bottom lip with a fang, all too absorbed in his own pleasure.
Lestat’s pleasure was evident, too. He rocked his hips up against him, now causing Louis to break the kiss and throw his head back in a moan.
And this was how it went, usually. Accepting Lestat’s drink, getting lost in the moment, then sex, and then… Louis would like to say regret, but that’s not the truth. No, what followed was bliss. For a moment, at least. Until the vicious circle started anew.
And it did start the following night.
“Why can’t you just for once accept that I don’t want to?!” Louis shouted. It was the same thing again. Lestat wanted to go on a hunt. He pressured Louis to come with him. Louis said no. Lestat wouldn’t have it. A nightly occurrence, at this point.
“Accept?” Lestat huffed. “You’re starving yourself, Lou.”
“I’m not starving myself!”
“You’re living off of two rats a night! On good nights! You can barely walk. If it weren’t for my blood, you’d be-”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Your blood? Fuck your blood. You’re the one who offered it to me, and now you’re blaming me for accepting it?”
Lestat’s lips formed a straight line. He was trying to restrain himself, but Louis was not a saint. He loved the provocation.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Lestat finally said, hands raised in surrender, not giving him the reaction he so desperately wanted. He grabbed his coat even though he didn’t need it.
“So what,” Louis continued. “You’re just gonna go out there, find some more girls, and bring them home for me to watch?”
“Louis.” Lestat’s voice was calmer than Louis had anticipated. “You are denying yourself the nutrition that you need. Come on the hunt with me. We can hunt four-legged creatures, but we are going to hunt.”
Louis pondered the option for a moment, but he was already too familiar with Lestat’s judgement when he’d watch Louis drain a rat or a raccoon. He was sure Lestat would find the biggest animal in all of Louisiana and make Louis eat it.
“No, thank you,” Louis just said, taking a step back for effect.
Lestat lingered by the door for a few more seconds, eyes unreadable. Finally, he smiled a fake smile and shrugged. “Fine. As you wish.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
The next night, they had the very same argument. The following night, the same. On, and on, and on. Another week passed, and then another. A month. Two. The blink of an eye for an eternal being.
The only real difference now was Louis’ condition. Sometimes, after a particularly heated argument, he’d feel too proud to eat. Lestat started bringing home rats and other rodents he’d find on his hunts. Louis would decline his offer, to which he’d throw them into the bedroom where Louis spent most of his time now and close the door. After a while – sometimes minutes, sometimes hours – Louis eventually succumbed to his hunger and drained them. Then Lestat would come back and grant him a drink from himself.
Accepting the drink, getting lost in the moment. Sex. Bliss. Self-loathing. Penance.
Why did he have to love Lestat with every fiber of his being? Why did he have to be so weak around him? Why was it that when he was with Lestat, he was able to forget about his issues entirely and just be. And it wasn’t until he was gone that the self-loathing would set in.
The problem wasn’t Lestat. The problem had never been Lestat.
The following night, Louis drained a human.
The pleasure he felt as his fangs penetrated the skin of the victim still repulsed him. What it did to his body as he tasted the man’s blood – it was something he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself for. He watched the man’s life before his eyes as he drank from him, his whole childhood, abusive mother and absent father, right up to the moment he saw himself approach and felt his fear. Then, acceptance. His life wasn’t worth fighting back. And so Louis took him and his heart slowed and his mind turned blank. He was just an empty vessel now. No memories. No blood. All sucked dry.
And he craved it the next night.
The pleasure rushing through his veins like an electric jolt at the taste of the sweet blood. And the more he drank, the more he couldn’t get himself to stop.
He did this for a week, and then went a week without. Penance for his pleasure. The hunger was worse than ever.
Louis leaned against the pillar by the archway into the living room, his arms crossed, his posture one of exhaustion masked as nonchalance. He felt weak. Frail, but he was holding on. But by God, it was taking every ounce of energy he had left.
Lestat was sitting at the piano, his fingers gliding over the keys, producing most beautiful sounds that were muffled by the tiredness of Louis’ body. His back was turned towards Louis, so he didn’t notice him approaching. For a moment, Louis relished in the view that was Lestat, his golden waves grazing his shoulders, the expression on his face one of serenity and deep focus. He didn’t want to disturb the view, make any sounds that would bring Lestat out of his entrancement, but he must have felt some movement because the music stopped and he turned around, his blue eyes landing on Louis’.
His lips formed a smile. “Louis. Mon amour.” He got up from the piano bench, gently took Louis’ face in his hands and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ve missed you.”
“That was beautiful.” Louis nodded towards the piano. “Did you compose it yourself?”
“Ah, non. It’s a Debussy piece. I found the sheet music for it in a bookshop some nights ago.”
Louis just offered a smile and leaned in for another kiss. None of it was Lestat’s fault. And yet, it felt like everything sort of was.
“Shall we go?”
Lestat’s eyes widened in amazement. “On a hunt?”
Louis drew in a sharp breath, then nodded. “Yeah.”
They went to the bar. Lots of easy prey with the loud music, the distraction. Many men their wives wouldn’t miss if they didn’t make it home that night. People recognized them as the mysterious businessmen who had somehow not aged a single day in the past seven years. As the owners of the Azalea who reportedly not only shared a house but also a marital bed, so loaded everyone turned a blind eye to it. The hatred was almost as big as the fascination, so when they sat down by a table with four men, they were even offered a drink that they, of course, didn’t decline.
The gin didn’t taste like it once used to to Louis, nor did it leave any effect. It was slightly bitter going down his throat, formed a metallic aftertaste. He did it for company now, more than anything, and to gain their victims’ trust. The men were already on their third or fourth drinks, visibly inebriated, swaying as they stood up, their voices rough and loud. They were all in their thirties. Two of them had wives at home, left there to take care of the children they never cared to see. The other two were secretly doing it with each other. All four had scammed sex workers out of money at Louis and Lestat’s very own establishment.
Even through their drunken gaze, the men immediately recognized the pair. And they wanted to know the secrets. All of them.
Lestat was better at charming them while Louis sipped his drink and laughed along at unfunny jokes. He was good at answering questions without answering them. Eventually, they came to an agreement – they would come home with them, and they would finally get their answers. Maybe they would even let them see for themselves.
Louis and Lestat lured the four into their townhouse.
“So, which one is it?” one of the men began as soon as he stepped into the grand living room. “You two fuckin’ or?”
Lestat smiled patiently, but Louis could see right through him. “Please, boys. Have a seat.”
“Uh-uh-” Another man wagged his finger. “You promised, Mr. Lioncourt. Didn’t come here to admire your interior design. Although judging by that, I’d say you’re a fag.”
Lestat clenched his jaw, so his smile turned more into a straight line. “Wouldn’t you know about that.”
The three other men’s jaws dropped in disbelief at Lestat’s comment, but he went on.
“Fine.” A shrug. “If you’re so adamant about it, we will show you our bedroom. That’s also where we drink from our fountain of youth in this satanic little townhouse of ours.”
Louis suppressed a smile at the obvious sarcasm dripping from Lestat’s words.
Lestat led the way with the men stumbling up the stairs behind him, Louis at the end of the line. He slid his fingers along the grand piano as he passed it and opened the door to the bedroom.
“Voilà.” He motioned towards the single queen-sized bed as he turned on his heel to face the men. “I hope this answers your question regarding mine and Louis’ personal life.”
Some gasps and laughter. Some mumbles about how they couldn’t wait ‘til everybody found out.
Lestat liked presenting their relationship to his victims, and Louis had to admit, there was a thrilling aspect to it. It was the only way they could share it with the world, because the people they told wouldn’t live long enough to tell.
Lestat continued on to the secret coffin room.
“And this is where we keep the fountain.”
He pulled the lever that opened one of the wooden wall panels, revealing the hidden room with golden wallpaper with vines of roses and peacocks and cranes painted on. The two coffins – one brown, adorned with intricate engravings, the other a plain shiny black – sat next to each other in the center of the room.
The men gasped, then one of them laughed, his brain too intoxicated for him to process.
“Yeah. Right. What is this?”
Louis took this as his cue to lock the door of the bedroom so no one could escape.
“This is where we drink,” he reiterated as no reply came. Lestat looked at him with such adoration in his eyes, such pride, but he couldn’t really revel in it. The hunger was driving him insane.
Slowly, it seemed to sink in what they were seeing. That those were indeed very real coffins, not some theater prop thing they were using to scare people.
Louis felt his fangs come out.
“Louis, mon amour. Whenever you’re ready.”
That’s when Louis attacked. His fangs sunk into the neck of one of the men with the wives as they all screamed, and he leaned into the pleasure this time, letting it engulf him, driving him to swallow the blood and draw more. Lestat let out a guttural moan and Louis found himself jealous over the fact that it wasn’t directed at him. The jealousy drove him to drain the man dry, ignoring the flashes of his life, little bits of him beating his wife, his children, and then fleeing himself into the oblivion of a drunk. He tossed the body aside when he was done and joined Lestat with his victim. With Lestat’s hand on the back of his head, they drained the man together, watching his shameful life flash before his eyes as the other men struggled to find their escape.
“Lou… Do you feel this?”
Louis nodded, his mouth still pressed against the victim’s neck.
“This is pure good. The pleasure that you feel. Indulge in it. Savor it. It’s the purpose of living.”
He got up from the floor, his white shirt completely blood-stained, and made his next kill as Louis finished his.
Louis didn’t know if he could completely agree with Lestat’s view. But right now, he was too absorbed in the moment to care. The kill, the blood, the pleasure… He wanted more. He dropped the body and moved on to the last one.
He was wailing by the door when Louis got to him, pulling him to the empty center of the room, and sinking his fangs into the flesh, sucking until he quieted down. His heartbeat weakened. Dull memories of his early life.
“Oh, Lou…” Lestat moaned before he sank down to the floor and grabbed the man’s neck. “What perfection you have provided for me tonight. I will not forget this for the rest of my existence. We must finish this one together.”
And that, they did. They drew his blood in tandem, perfectly in sync, as they always were. And then, he was dead, the body lying limp on the floor between them. Louis looked at Lestat, his pupils blown wide, only leaving a small ring of blue surrounding it. His fangs were still out. The blood, still warm, dripping down his lips, down his chin, down his shirt that was clinging to his sculpted body, and Louis didn’t want to waste a drop of it. He was still hungry. For blood, for pleasure. For Lestat. A few beats of heavy breaths. The memory of Lestat moaning against the stranger’s neck. It was all it took to push Louis over the edge.
The room was bloody. Bloodstains all over the hardwood floor, pooling around the bodies, and Louis and Lestat in the center of it all, Lestat’s mouth on Louis’, biting, kissing, finding each other. Months of starvation took over and Louis relinquished, letting his urges win and claiming back his nature.
He was Lestat’s, and Lestat was his. And in this bloodbath they were bound together, roaming the Savage Garden for all eternity.
Lestat’s wet shirt came off with a tug from Louis and landed somewhere on the floor. Louis sucked up the blood it left on his skin, staining it red, and pink, licking up his collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest as Lestat’s fingers fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt before he eventually gave up and tore it off. Delicious sounds came out of his parted lips, his head tilted back, until Louis’ trail of kisses made its way up again and he grabbed a fistful of Lestat’s hair and pulled him down to meet him in another hungry kiss.
Lestat’s fingers ran down his chest, right down to the waistband of his pants, tugging on it, letting it snap back before moving further, and Louis bucked his hips as Lestat palmed him through the fabric, eliciting a small whimper between kisses and a reciprocation as Louis began tugging on Lestat’s pants, peeling them off his body along with his underwear with his greedy vampiric swiftness.
The blood had even seeped through the thick wool fabric and stained his skin. Lestat’s back hit the floor as Louis took a hold of his thigh, bringing it up to his mouth to lick off the blood. He took it all in – the view, Lestat on the floor, naked and bloody, his cock hard and flushed and leaking pink precum onto his stomach, the sweet scent of the victims’ blood, the sweet scent of them both, the slightly salty taste as he continued to kiss up Lestat’s thighs.
Louis got rid of his own pants and underwear. In the meantime, Lestat sat up, watching Louis with lust written in his eyes, and the second Louis was undressed, Lestat’s mouth was on his again, his hand guiding his chin, the other finding its way down to touch his dick.
“Hmm…” Lestat hummed against Louis’ lips. “Veux-tu que je te baise? Hm? Veux-tu que je te fasse l’amour, mon amour?”
Louis just managed a desperate nod. He needed him. He wanted him.
Louis lay down, his back against the cold floor, wet with blood, his legs bent, slightly raising his hips to allow the best possible access. Lestat didn’t even try to hide the smirk that formed on his face.
“So eager. Patience, mon cher.”
“Please…”
Instead of answering, he coated two of his fingers in a puddle of blood on the floor. It was dead blood; they couldn’t eat it. This way, it still had its purpose. Louis slammed his head against the wooden floor as the tip of Lestat’s finger touched his rim and he carefully pushed it all the way in. Louis rocked his hips to meet his finger. His dick was aching, left so completely disregarded. He reached out to touch himself, but Lestat found his hand before he could and intertwined their fingers, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles. He didn’t say anything, but his instruction was clear.
He added a second finger, and every time he pulled out Louis craved more.
“I can take you,” he promised. “Need you. Now.”
Oh, but Lestat loved to be painfully slow. He pulled out, leaving Louis a whimpering, empty mess, just to gather more blood from the puddle.
As he added the third finger, his movement slowed. He was fucking him in agonizing slow motion, pushing in, and pulling out, and Louis spread his legs further, hoping that maybe it would make him pick up speed, but it didn’t. But finally, he pulled back out again and shuffled closer to align himself.
It still burned when he pushed in, even though he was used to it, and even though he’d just had three fingers inside of him, but the burn soon turned into pleasure, spreading through him just like the blood had spread when he’d drank it. It was the same sensation coursing through him now, the same thrill. He was filled with the same desire.
Lestat moved slowly, gently rocking his hips against Louis, and once they found their rhythm he leaned over him and Louis put his arms around him, one hand in his hair, the other one on his back. His hair fell into Louis’ face as he kissed him, sliding his tongue against his, and then he pressed open-mouthed kisses to his neck, his collarbone, his chest, savoring, worshipping, and Louis let out whimpers and moans that accompanied Lestat’s hums against his skin with every thrust, the vibration feeling electric against his body. With his hand still in Lestat’s hair he pulled him back up for another fervent kiss.
“Louis…” Lestat gasped and picked up his pace. Louis could tell he was close from the way his hips stuttered sometimes and he struggled to keep the rhythm. Finally, Lestat too was losing his self-control.
The sounds and the sight as Lestat reached his climax were enough to bring Louis over the edge as well and he came untouched, coating both their chests and stomachs in ribbons of his cum.
Lestat pressed one more kiss to Louis’ lips before he carefully slid out and as he collapsed next to him on the floor, one hand above Louis’ heart and they both tried to catch their breaths, he knew it. He could endure.
And it was the same thing again, except it wasn’t. This time, the vicious circle ended with bliss, and it did not begin anew.