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Louis had just settled into a hotel room in Burlington when his phone lit up with an incoming call.
“Hello, Daniel,” Louis answered, curiosity and warmth curling through him. It hadn’t been long since he last heard from Daniel — a month, maybe two — but it always put him at ease to know Daniel was somewhere out there enjoying being a vampire and best-selling author.
Louis could not say he was glad their interview had been published. Though he still felt a jolt each time he noticed its distinctive red cover in the front window of a bookstore, he would never regret inviting Daniel to Dubai. Without Daniel’s interference, who knew how many more decades he would pass in that miserable, nebulous existence. No clarity, no agency, no —
“Lestat.”
Louis paused. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think you should be. What did you do to Lestat?”
Lestat? He hadn’t done anything to Lestat, at least not recently, quite at Lestat’s insistence. It had been over a year since he’d seen the man in person, months since they’d last spoken on the phone.
In New Orleans, Louis had resolved to communicate more effectively with Lestat. Once they were in the safety of Louis’s hotel room, clean and mostly satiated by Louis’s stash of blood in the mini-fridge, they climbed together into Louis’s coffin and talked.
“I meant what I said when I told you I’m companion enough for myself now,” Louis had told him seriously. “I can’t jump back into this with you right now. My head…”
Lestat reached for his hand and squeezed it, his wide blue eyes fixed on Louis.
“My head is a little fucked right now,” he finished. “I guess it’s always been fucked up, but. Especially now.”
Lestat’s mouth twisted at his words, his free hand traveling up to touch his cheek. “Armand?” he asked softly.
“Armand,” Louis agreed. “I can’t even really talk about it now. Some things came to light that he’d tried real hard to keep secret all these years. And I’m not totally sure what is…what is real, what’s me, what’s you. What’s Claudia,” he admitted ruefully. “Most of all, I’m terrified that I’m not remembering her right.”
Lestat’s eyes shone. “We can help each other remember. I’ve thought of little else these years except our family.”
“Yeah,” Louis said. “I want to remember our family right, too. But I need time, Lestat. I need you to be patient with me.”
“I can be patient,” Lestat said quickly. “I can give you, ah, space. Louis, we’ve had nothing but space for over eighty years, it is habit by now.” He didn’t quite manage to disguise the hurt in his tone. His leg was tucked firmly in between Louis’s.
“I can’t stay here,” Louis said firmly. “I need to go back to Dubai. That’s where I’ve been the last few years,” he explained awkwardly, suddenly aware that Lestat would not know where Louis was living. “I have some things to take care of there. Here in New Orleans, it’s all a bit…” He trailed off, unsure what to say to Lestat. All a bit much? Yes, certainly. Painful. Exquisite. He wanted to open the coffin lid to find his phone and book the next flight out of the city. He wanted the roof of the hotel to cave in and trap them together in that coffin, legs intertwined, Lestat’s still-damp hair tickling his neck.
“I understand,” Lestat said softly. Louis thought of the leaking shack of a house so near Rue Royal; the robe Lestat had worn, now discarded on the bathroom floor, nearly identical to the one he’d worn after the first time they’d made love. I can’t get her out of my mind.
“But listen,” Louis pressed on. You got your iPad; it’ll be easy to set you up with a phone. We’ll call. I won’t disappear on you, Lestat.”
“I understand,” Lestat repeated. “I’ll get a phone. We’ll call. You need to go back to Dubai, and you can’t stay. Right now I just want to sleep.”
“Okay,” Louis agreed after a moment, aware there was more to be said on the subject. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow night.” He brought his arms up around Lestat, who buried his face into the crook of Louis’ neck. With Lestat in his arms, Louis fell asleep in a matter of minutes.
By the end of Louis’ stay, Lestat had a new apartment, a shiny new iPhone safely nestled in the sturdiest-looking case Louis could find on short notice, and Louis’s number programmed inside.
At first, they’d made good use of it.
“Hello, Louis,” he’d say each time he picked up.
“Hello, Lestat,” Louis responded accordingly, and off they went. In those first months, Louis heard a great deal about Lestat’s attempts at decorating his apartment, his noisy neighbors the next block over, and the various activities of the nearby Lafayette cemetery. Louis enjoyed these mundane conversations, used them as a balm against the old wound of missing Lestat.
Often, the small talk would dwindle and give way to a more difficult subject — the only subject — Claudia.
One night, several months into this new long-distance dynamic, Lestat attempted to broach the topic of the trial. Louis managed to listen to only a few minutes of Lestat’s faltering explanation, grip tightening involuntarily on his phone until it gave way and was crushed to pieces in his hand, effectively ending the conversation. He pretended not to notice the barely repressed relief in Lestat’s voice when he called back the next night on a replacement phone. They never revisited the matter.
And so it had gone on for an entire year, their conversations growing increasingly stilted as they ran out of shared history Louis deemed safe to rehash with Lestat. There was so much he couldn’t imagine telling Lestat over the phone, their expressions hidden away from each other. Equally impossible was the thought of returning to New Orleans. The week he’d spent there had taken on a dream-like quality in his memory, surreal. He’d been buoyed through the nights by his rage toward Armand and the desperate need to see Lestat, but to return again and walk the streets where he’d fallen in love with Lestat and raised Claudia? Unbearable.
He’d made the penthouse bearable, thanks in particular to a delivery postmarked from New Orleans that arrived shortly after Louis confided in Lestat the difficult time he’d been having with the remodel. Lestat told Louis he’d be happy to pull some old things out of storage for him, revealing that most of their possessions were not lost forever at the Buenos Aires Port Authority like Louis assumed but had been safely stashed in storage in the city since 1940.
“Well, I knew we were never going to Argentina, Louis,” Lestat remarked casually. “Just tell me what you need sent over.”
Louis requested a few choice pieces. Now, Paul’s portrait hung proudly on the wall. He placed a framed photo of Lestat, Claudia, and him on the table next to his new coffin, faded with age. Lestat assured him he’d had copies made before sending the original to Louis.
In addition to the things Louis had requested, a small, soft parcel was wrapped with exquisite care and placed atop the heavier items to keep it safe from being crushed. Even before opening it he knew it was Claudia’s yellow dress, which Lestat confided to Louis weeks prior he’d taken from Santiago’s vanity before fleeing the theatre for Magnus’s tower.
“Madeleine made that for her,” Louis told him over the phone that night when he called to confirm he’d received the delivery, tracing a finger over the delicate stitching. “She was a seamstress. She loved to dress Claudia in yellow.”
Lestat remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I hope they loved each other very much.”
“They did,” Louis said with conviction. “I didn’t know Madeleine real well, but when I turned her, I saw things. Saw enough that I knew — knew she was right for Claudia. And she was. They would’ve been happy.” There he faltered. Lestat hummed in understanding. “Made me realize that you must’ve seen things, too, when you turned me. Seen my life flash before my eyes. Happened so long ago that now I can’t remember what I must’ve been thinkin’ about.”
“I remember,” Lestat said softly. “I saw your father. You and your siblings playing as children. A field of sugarcane. Dancing for pennies outside of church. Your father’s funeral and the day Paul came home from the hospital. Your mother smiling at you, touching your cheek. Grace in her wedding dress, and you dancing with Paul, again.” He paused. “You’re a wonderful dancer, Louis.”
Louis wanted to press him further. Had he seen Paul’s death in Louis’s mind? He must have. That was the only thing Louis could say with certainty had been running through his mind on a hellish loop. Paul walking away from him, too near the edge —
And he must have seen himself. Louis hoped that Lestat could see how human Louis felt about him throughout the fall and winter of 1910 as he fell deep in helpless love with him. Absurdly handsome, stunningly powerful, alarmingly French. He had spent years relying on the fact that Lestat spent months able to read his human mind and surely knew how much Louis loved him without him needing to say it. Now he could not be certain — after all, in the years that followed, hadn’t Louis’s shame and fear won out against that love countless times?
“It sounds like her turning was beautiful,” Lestat continued. “It is a lucky vampire who gets to be turned under your care, Louis.”
Louis’s lips twitched into a weak smile. “Mine and Claudia’s care,” he corrected. “She couldn’t help herself, of course. Couldn’t leave it all up to me. She drank from the other side of Madeleine’s neck, saw everything for herself. Nosy.”
“I wish I could’ve seen it,” Lestat said, and Louis could hear the smile in his voice.
“I wish that too,” he whispered back, knowing Lestat’s presence that night was the last thing Claudia would’ve ever wanted, feeling the betrayal and truth of it all at once.
In those moments, he resented the distance between them, as self-inflicted as it was. But those moments were rare, and Louis could sense Lestat’s growing frustration with the arrangement. He declined each of Lestat’s decreasingly subtle invitations to visit him in New Orleans. Their calls grew shorter and more infrequent.
Louis began to leave Dubai for stretches at a time, picking cities at random but rarely spending an entire week in one place. He was dipping his toes into the water of being a single traveler — a single man. There was Dublin, for a time, which made him think about DJ Samuel Beckett. There was a memorable long weekend in Amsterdam. There was Istanbul, where he’d caught the tail end of the tulip festival. Lestat’s apparent interest in hearing about these sojourns started off low and decreased with time.
Their communication ceased altogether around the time Daniel’s book went to print. Lestat had called to inform him that he was taking some time to focus on his music and would appreciate it if Louis respected his need for space. Louis agreed without argument, mostly stunned that Lestat had not called to berate him about his portrayal in Interview.
It was a relief when his time was suddenly occupied with fending off angry vampires hellbent on getting their revenge, although they were few in number and easily dispatched. Once even that distraction had passed, he’d returned to travel.
Finding himself had mostly turned out to be a pain in the ass.
“I haven’t been able to reach you for months, Louis,” Daniel said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you finally got the fuck outta that apartment, but it’s like you just disappeared. What have you been doing?”
Louis frowned. “I’ve been traveling, Daniel. Getting to know who I am when I’m by myself. Haven’t always been checking my phone, but if you’d called out to me, I would’ve—”
“Yeah, that’s not an option right now,” Daniel interrupted. “Where are you? Are you in the States?”
“Not an option why?” Louis pressed, curious.
“Not an option because I have no idea where the fuck you are and calling out into the void for you means your boyfriend would be able to hear it. Upsetting Lestat is the opposite of what I’m trying to do right now.”
Louis took a moment to process this. “You’re with Lestat?”
Daniel sighed. “Where are you, Louis?” he asked again.
“Vermont. Why are you with Lestat?”
“Vermont—? Jesus, Louis, I thought you’d gone to find yourself in the jungle or somewhere else you can’t get cell service. What have you been doing, leaf peeping? When the fuck is the last time you called your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Louis said automatically. “And I’m perfectly entitled to take some time to myself and shut off my cell phone if I feel like it. Very few people need to reach me on that cell phone. Is there something that entitles you to ask invasive questions about my communication with Lestat?”
“You’re right, Louis; you’ve been so reticent to talk about him with me before now. To answer your condescending question, I’m entitled to know because I’m trying to make a documentary about the asshole. He’s spiraling and I know he hasn’t spoken to you in months. Don’t get me wrong, it makes for great TV, but there are limits. This isn’t Los Angeles, I can only replace the boom guy so many times. He needs you, and I need him to sit in front of the camera for longer than forty-five minutes at a time. Therefore, I need you, Louis.” Daniel pitched his voice low as if to prevent Lestat from overhearing. Lestat, whom Daniel was making a documentary about.
“I think I’m lost,” Louis said. “You’re making a documentary about Lestat? About what, the vampire lifestyle? Haven’t you tempted fate enough already?”
“If by fate you mean a bunch of blowhard vampires who are all threats and no follow-through, then obviously I haven’t tempted them hard enough. And if by ‘vampire lifestyle’ you mean the rockstar lifestyle of a very specific vampire, then, yes, it’s a vampire lifestyle documentary.”
Louis sat down on the hotel bed, staring at the inoffensive abstract art hanging on the wall across from him as if seeking answers. At least if the lines appeared to start moving he would know that he had accidentally ingested some manner of hallucinogenic while hunting among UVM grad students. That would account for the incomprehensible conversation he was having with Daniel.
“So you’re working on your second incendiary vampire exposé project in as many years, this time a documentary, which to my knowledge you have no prior experience in producing.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s about Lestat, who is a rockstar?”
“He wanted it to be a documentary,” Daniel said petulantly. “And his story is fascinating, Freud would have a field day, but my crew is mortal and if he eats any more of them their union is going to be on my fucking ass. I mean, Jesus Christ, Louis, you must’ve heard some of his songs by now. Couldn’t shoot him a quick text to check in?”
Louis checked — the painting stayed still.
He pulled his phone away from his ear and switched it to speaker phone, swiped over to Google and typed in his search, feeling like an idiot: lestat rockstar.
He took a moment to scroll through the results — YouTube links to modestly viewed music videos, news articles covering his latest cancellable public gaffs, an untold number of tweets that Louis found largely incomprehensible but were undoubtedly devoted to Lestat, and then there were the photos.
“I thought he was going to do piano recitals,” Louis said finally. “It’s been a minute since we spoke. But — only because he told me he needed space. Said something about taking time to work on his music and that he’d reach out when he was ready. He’d been so respectful of my boundaries, I didn’t want to…” he trailed off, unsure what to say. Had Lestat been respectful of his boundaries or had Louis just made them iron-clad, impossible to violate? Hadn’t he been the one to set the terms of their communication? When their conversations crossed the line from cathartic to painful, wasn’t he the one who ended them, regardless of what Lestat might need from him in those moments?
It stung him badly when Lestat asked him for space. He’d been ashamed to realize how quickly they’d fallen back into that old intoxicating dynamic — Lestat the pursuer, Louis the reticent. Louis had taken it for granted that Lestat would do anything to keep Louis’s attention and capture his affections. That was foolish; Lestat’s supply of patience was the opposite of endless.
It was incomprehensibly difficult to readjust to the absence of Lestat in his life after Lestat had asked. He spent months fighting the urge to ignore Lestat’s wishes and call him anyway. He imagined Lestat finding catharsis bent over the keys of the baby grand Louis knew he’d spent an eye-watering amount to get inside his apartment, long introspective nights stalking prey through the bayou and practicing CBT exercises from a helpful article Louis had emailed him. Louis was a fucking idiot.
“What’s he done to his hair?”
“That’s the least of our worries,” Daniel said breezily. “Will you come? Is the siren call of your unstable ex strutting around a soundstage terrorizing mortal sound guys enough to tear you away from the enchanting vistas of Vermont?”
“At least in Vermont there are no other vampires to bother me,” Louis said.
Daniel hesitated. “Listen, Louis, if anyone has earned the right to set some hard boundaries about your exes, it’s you. I’m asking you to come, but it’s just an ask. You can tell me no and I’ll figure something else out.”
Daniel might just be the most sincere vampire Louis had ever met. “I know. If he needs me, I’ll come. But I’m not sure he’ll want to see me.”
“He wants you,” Daniel dismissed. “See you tonight.”
Louis scoffed. “That’s a little presumptuous. I can’t pick up and leave right this minute. I have to—”
Daniel hung up.
That night, Louis was in California.
He’d spent the almost seven-hour flight out of Burlington’s private airport listening to Lestat’s album and watching his music videos on repeat. When did this start? The last time they’d spoken was late June, nearly a year to the day of their reunion in New Orleans; it was now mid-September. Google told him Lestat’s debut concert was scheduled for next month in San Francisco. Louis didn’t doubt Lestat’s ability to write and record an entire album plus produce visuals in less than three months, but surely some level-headed mortals had to be involved in the business side of things. Where the hell had he found an agent?
He didn’t know what to think about the music itself. If he hadn’t spent years of his life hallucinating a version of Lestat with much better hair, he wasn’t sure he’d believe it was real.
Lestat was angry, that was clear. He felt rejected. Without a trace, you disappear. Fine. For thirty years, Lestat had interpreted Louis’s hurt and distance as outright rejection and responded with appropriate dramatics. Louis could only blame this latest response from Lestat on whatever MTV’s Greatest Hits archive Lestat had clearly stumbled across on his iPad.
He idled in his rental car outside the address Daniel sent him, waiting. It was creeping up on one o’clock in the morning in San Francisco and Lestat had been scheduled to interview from ten to twelve. He wondered if Lestat felt his presence waiting outside or if he was unable to focus on anything except his own histrionics. He shut off the engine and got out of the car, walked around to lean on the passenger door. He shut his eyes and spent a moment traveling through the studio through the eyes of mortal employees, jumping from mind to mind to seek out Lestat.
His concentration was broken when the stage door slammed open and three humans spilled out of it, leaning against the brick exterior and fumbling around for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After a moment, Louis recognized them as Lestat’s bandmates, though he couldn’t name a single one of them. They didn’t seem to notice him, although he was mere yards away.
For the first time in years he itched for a cigarette himself, desperate to have something to do with his hands while he waited. Lestat’s bandmates only managed a few drags themselves when the door opened again and a smartly dressed woman stepped outside, her gaze immediately catching first on Louis’s rented Tesla and traveling to land on Louis himself. He returned her scrutinizing gaze and after a moment she turned on her impressively high heels and reentered the building. Finally clued into his existence, Lestat’s bandmates watched him curiously.
Minutes passed and Louis began considering the merits of abandoning the car and marching inside to find Lestat himself when he heard the roar of an approaching car. He watched an ostentatious sports car pull up alongside him, cutting off his view of the stage door. The trio of musicians swarmed toward it, putting out their cigarettes against the building and clamoring to fit into the backseat.
“We still waiting on Lestat?” the driver asked.
“No,” came a voice directly next to Louis. Only Louis’s vampire instincts prevented him from jumping; the humans in the sports car screamed. “You go. I have to talk to Louis.”
“Louis? That’s Louis?” one of them said from the backseat.
“Goodbye,” Lestat said with some force, and the car immediately pulled away from the curb and down the street away from the studio. They silently watched it go until it was out of their enhanced eyesight.
“Hello Louis,” Lestat said finally, never tolerant of long silences.
“Hello Lestat,” Louis replied. “How was your —”
“Can I help you with something, Louis?” Lestat interrupted. Now recovered from the shock of Lestat’s sudden appearance next to him, Louis took a moment to appraise him. He had on a crimson silk shirt unbuttoned past his navel and a luridly tight pair of black leather pants. His neck was adorned with layers of silver necklaces including, Louis noticed with some amusement, a crucifix. His nails gleamed fetchingly.
“I came to see you,” Louis said, hopelessly aware of how much this moment echoed last year in New Orleans, right down to the shock of Lestat’s hangers-on that he was Louis.
“Here I am,” Lestat said, arms crossed over his chest, the silk shirt stretched tight with the movement. Louis resolutely did not look down.
“Here you are,” he agreed softly. “Was that your ride home you sent away just now?” Louis inclined his head in the direction the car — a Porsche, he was pretty sure — had disappeared. Lestat’s gaze did not waver.
“Of course not, Louis. You’re my ride home tonight. Aren’t you?” Without waiting for a response, Lestat expertly popped open the Tesla’s passenger door handle and let himself in. Louis was left to circle the car to let himself into the driver’s side, feeling oddly off-balance. This was why he’d avoided New Orleans all this time, despite the resentment it had fostered within Lestat — he didn’t know how to handle this. He didn’t know how to stop being the man who lost himself in Lestat, infuriated and infatuated all at once with his every action. Loving him never stopped being painful; wanting him was inevitable. His attraction to Lestat was one of the permanent burdens of his life, proven ten times over by the fact Louis wanted him even now that he sported a heinous crimped hairstyle the likes of which Louis hadn’t seen since the early aughts.
“Forgive my assumption, but experience tells me you’ll be here until you’ve seen me properly,” Lestat continued. Louis glared at him. “I figured you wouldn’t mind giving me a ride home in this charming vehicle first.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I seem to remember that when you came to see me in New Orleans it wasn’t until after you’d helped me, shall we say, break in my new coffin that you left—”
“Jesus Christ, Lestat, is that how you think that happened?” Louis demanded. “It was my plan to leave the next night and you knew it, I wasn’t fleeing the scene or whatever you’ve made it out to be in your mind—”
“Then it seems to me you could have refrained for one more night,” Lestat snarled. “Because it was also your plan to never return to New Orleans after you went, wasn’t it? That was the part of the plan I wasn’t privy to. ‘We’ll call, Lestat!’ The dutiful husband rings home only as often as required to keep the waiting spouse from outright hysterics. Meanwhile you spend months skulking around in some high-rise mausoleum and insist to me it was finally becoming the home you’d so longed for it to be before turning around right after to fuck off to who knows where. Nowhere I was privy to. Nowhere I was allowed to know about until you’d already left, lest I track you down and afflict you with my presence.”
“You think I was keeping secrets from you? I couldn’t go back to New Orleans and you refused to leave it. I just considered myself lucky that the hurricane took out the roof of that shack so you couldn’t stick around there—”
“Fortunate indeed,” Lestat spat. “You didn’t ask me, Louis. You didn’t ask me to go to Dubai—”
“Because you would’ve been so eager to hang around the place where Armand and I—”
“You didn’t ask me to meet you elsewhere,” Lestat continued. “Never gave me a choice because you dreaded my answering being ‘yes.’ By the time that hit job of an interview came out — without a word of warning from you! — you must’ve wished I was back in that shack, Louis. You must’ve wished you’d never breathed the words ‘internet router’ in my presence. When I called you and told you I no longer wished to speak with you, it might’ve been the happiest moment of your year.”
“I didn’t think the interview was going to be published, and when I found out about it, it was too late,” Louis said levelly. “So that’s what all this—” he gestured at Lestat’s person — “is about, then? Telling your side of the story with just a little embellishment? You must regret hiring Daniel already. I remember you have a low tolerance for people who refuse to indulge your particular brand of bullshit. No wonder you’re lashing out.”
“I think you’ll find it’s Daniel who is struggling,” Lestat retorted. “After all, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Daniel is out of his depth and called you in to rescue him. Your friendship is touching.” Lestat’s assessing, icy gaze swept over him. “Good friends. Co-authors, of a sort. Is that all there is? He has a certain charisma, I’ll admit, but if you’re hoping for more, mon cher, I fear that ship may have sailed. He seems rather fixated on an old friend of ours—”
“I don’t need you to explain to me that Daniel wants to fuck Armand, Lestat. And I already told you why I’m here. To see you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Louis, but as you can see I am extremely busy at the moment. Perhaps if you’d come by sooner. In fact, almost any time earlier would have worked. I have work to do tonight. Start the car, I’ll put my address in your GPS.” Louis did as he asked and immediately the sound of Lestat’s singing filled the car, The Vampire Lestat’s album cover filling on the car’s touchscreen display.
Lestat froze, his hand halfway stretched out to input his address. Louis was glad it had been over twelve hours since he’d last fed, or he would surely blush.
“Well, Louis, I’m flattered.” Lestat cleared his throat. “What do you make of the album?”
“You have a beautiful voice,” Louis told him truthfully. “The lyricism is…intriguing. I mean, it’s no Come to Me, but I must say I prefer your choice of backup singers.”
Lestat looked delighted. “How morbid of you, Louis. That woman is dead, you know.”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“But not me,” Lestat continued quietly.
Louis could not bear to look at him, though he could feel Lestat’s eyes boring into the side of his face. This was precisely the sort of territory they’d carefully avoided before now.
“I couldn’t burn you, Les,” he whispered. There was the explanation in its entirety.
“I know,” Lestat whispered back and reached across the seats for Louis’ hand. “I have missed you, Louis. I grow so weary of missing you.”
Louis nodded, his throat catching. “I’m terrified to mess it all up again, Lestat. I don’t know how many chances we get at this thing. I just want things to be right between us but I don’t know how to make it so. I’ve never known how.”
“Louis, how can we learn if we don’t even try?” Lestat urged him, gripping tightly now onto his forearm. “Louis, you must allow me to love you. I’ll die if you don’t allow me to love you.”
Louis blinked blood out of his eyes and risked a glance over at Lestat. His silk shirt gaped open, revealing the absurd angle created from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, a tapered landscape of hard white skin abruptly cut off by the low line of his dark leather pants.
Louis raised his eyes to meet Lestat’s gaze, and was lost.
Instantly Lestat swung himself over the center console of the car and into Louis’s lap, their lips connecting. Louis’s hands instinctively grasped at Lestat’s waist, securing him in place and pulling his pelvis down to meet Louis’s. Their bodies moved together, their rhythm guided the music still blaring from the car’s speakers. Lestat gasped against his mouth and Louis opened up for him, greedily taking Lestat’s tongue into his mouth. He savored the taste of him, blood and something Louis couldn’t quite identify, something foreign where he used to expect cigarette smoke.
His hands traveled down the sides of Lestat’s torso to cup his ass. Lestat moaned in approval, pushing back against his hands. Louis paused, feeling something foreign in Lestat’s back pocket. He pulled away from Lestat’s mouth, ignoring his whine, and fished it out. For a moment Louis wondered why Lestat would be carrying around a USB drive with him — maybe he kept his music on there? Then it clicked.
“Jesus Christ, Lestat,” he said, disgusted. “Is this a fucking vape?”
Lestat leaned back in Louis’s arms and in one smooth motion plucked the vape from Louis’s grip, crushed it, rolled down the driver’s side window and threw the vape from the car. “Non. Put your hands back on my arse, Louis.”
Louis complied. Lestat smiled down at him approvingly and leaned forward to recapture his lips. The song playing through the speakers faded out and for a moment the only sound in the car was the sound of their lips meeting, their heavy breathing and the tiny noises Lestat was making against Louis’s mouth.
“Lestat,” Louis murmured, just for the simple pleasure of saying his name.
“Louis,” Lestat breathed back, squeezing Louis’s torso with his thighs and grinding against Louis’s leg.
Louis took one hand off Lestat’s ass to fumble alongside the driver’s seat, seeking out the seat controls. His noise of triumph upon finding them was swallowed up by Lestat, who hummed appreciatively back. He pressed on the lever and felt his seat begin to recline smoothly back, wrapped his other arm around Lestat’s waist to keep him steady as they moved.
Lestat burst into laughter, startling Louis and causing him to let go of the seat control.
“What?” Louis demanded, caught at an awkward half-upright angle.
“Nothing, mon cher, forgive me,” Lestat demurred. “Keep going, I want to be horizontal with you.” Louis found the lever and again pressed it, huffing in annoyance when Lestat laughed again.
“Lestat, I can’t help the noise the damn seat makes.”
“I’m very sorry, my love — it’s a terribly sexy noise, really. Keep going.”
“Well, now I know you don’t think it’s a sexy noise and we just gotta sit here and listen to it ’til the damn thing is done reclining.”
“Here, let me put my music back on, that will help,” Lestat assured him, twisting around in Louis’ lap to reach the screen. Louis’s fingers clenched around Lestat’s waist at the pressure. “I’m sure,” Louis said.
The beginning notes of the first song on The Vampire Lestat began just as the seat finished reclining, the noisy seat motor finally silent. Lestat turned back around and pressed their bodies flush together, cradled Louis’s face in his hands and gazed down at him.
“My Louis,” he whispered. “So beautiful.” Louis fought the urge to break their eye contact, continued to gaze up at Lestat and let him take in Louis’s expression. He could imagine what he looked like — besotted. Overwhelmed. Desperate. A little something like Lestat.
“Switch with me, baby,” Louis said, waiting for Lestat to brace himself before carefully flipping them so that Lestat was under his body, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Wanna get my mouth on you.”
Louis kissed his way down Lestat’s chest, tasting the metal of his necklaces, and undid the couple of shirt buttons Lestat had bothered to fasten. Lestat sat up to help Louis slide it off the shirt off shoulders and discarded it somewhere on the passenger side.
“I missed you,” he whispered, tracing a finger along Lestat’s abdominals, feeling them clench in response. “Didn’t have enough time in New Orleans.” Not the one night they shared last year; not the thirty years they had together before that. Lestat looked up at him, eyes shining, and Louis knew he understood.
“Take your time with me now,” Lestat whispered. Louis smiled at him.
“Well, maybe not right this minute,” he reasoned. “We can’t fuck in this car.” Lestat made a noise of protest. “I don’t want to fuck in this car,” Louis corrected himself. “I want you to fuck me somewhere you can take your time with me, work me over with your fingers until I’m begging for it.” Under him, Lestat lifted his hips, seeking friction. Louis settled himself heavily on Lestat’s thighs, halting his movements.
“That part doesn’t take long, if my memory serves me,” Lestat said shamelessly. Louis threw his head back and laughed.
“You’re right, Les,” he agreed, leaning down to reward him with a lingering kiss on his neck, teasing the sensitive skin there with the barest press of his fangs. Lestat gasped and bucked under him again. “That just means we’ll have plenty of time left over for you to fuck me. Plenty of time for you to make me come, and come again. Lotsa time for you to be a good boy and not come until I say so, ’til I’ve taken my pleasure from you. And then, when I’m good and ready, I’ll tell you to come inside me. And you won’t waste a drop of it, will you, baby?”
“No,” Lestat gasped. Louis looked down and appreciated the heroic way Lestat’s erection was fighting the confines of his tight leather pants. “I’d be good for you.”
“I know,” Louis whispered to him, moving his hand away from Lestat’s abdomen to trace the outline of his clothed cock. “You are good to me, baby. That’s why you’re gonna wait to fuck me ’til we can find somewhere nice that isn’t the inside of a car. Not tonight, baby, I’m sorry. I want it bad too. But soon.” Louis leaned in to press kisses along the column of Lestat’s throat. “Although, I’d hate to distract you from your documentary, or your rehearsals…”
“Fuck the documentary, I don’t need the documentary, you’re here—”
“I’m here,” Louis agreed. “But Les, you can’t miss any rehearsals, you got your big concert next month!”
“Jesus fucking Christ Louis, touch me,” Lestat snarled.
Louis abandoned his teasing and adjusted himself on Lestat’s lap, planting a knee on either side of Lestat’s hips to steady himself and reaching for the waistband of Lestat’s pants. Lestat dislodged him momentarily when he reached for Louis’s sweater, yanked it unceremoniously over his head, then tossed it onto his own abandoned shirt. Louis reached again for Lestat’s pants and managed to get them down just far enough to reveal an enticing patch of dark blond pubic hair before his progress halted.
“Fuck,” he swore. “Move your hips up.” Lestat complied, and Louis tugged again. The pants didn’t move an inch. Louis shifted backward, intending to get more leverage, and promptly fell off Lestat’s lap, colliding with the dashboard before Lestat could put his arms around his waist and scoop him back to safety.
“Oh, my poor Louis,” he cooed over the sounds of Louis’s cursing. “I’m sorry, mon cher, these pants are a challenge to take off even in the roomiest of settings.”
“You particularly attached to them?” Louis asked, gripping the waistband.
“Well, not especially—”
With one swift, decisive motion, Louis tore the pants away. Lestat threw his head back and moaned.
Louis lowered himself carefully to kneel on the car floor, mindful of the steering wheel at his back. The space was cramped but manageable, and engaging the seat controls again to move the seat back was out of the question. He grasped one of Lestat’s powerful thighs in each hand and hooked them over his shoulders. Lestat watched him with a smoldering expression, propped up on a single elbow.
“Lay down, Les,” Louis murmured. “Lemme take care of you. I got you.”
Lestat gazed at him for a moment longer before he acquiesced, torso falling back against the car seat. “Can I put my hands in your hair?”
“Yes,” Louis agreed. “Thank you for asking.” Then, having put it off quite long enough, he leaned forward and took the tip of Lestat’s cock in his mouth.
Lestat made an animal noise and surprised Louis by jerking his hips forward hard enough to choke Louis had he been human. It was an uncharacteristic breach of his normally impeccable blowjob etiquette.
“Forgive me,” Lestat whispered in French, carding his fingers through Louis’s hair. “Forgive me, my love, it’s been some time.”
That caught Louis’s attention. “Nobody since me?” he asked, unable to help himself. Lestat lifted his head up to meet Louis’s cautious gaze.
“Nobody since you,” he confirmed. “And nobody else before that.”
It took him a moment to understand Lestat’s meaning. “Since Mardis Gras?”
Lestat nodded.
“Oh, Les.” For all his talk of enjoying variety, Louis wasn’t sure Lestat had had more than a handful of lovers outside of himself and Antoinette the entire time they’d been together. Still, sex was important to Lestat. It had hurt him greatly whenever their sex life suffered, either as a result of Louis’s rat-based diet in the early years or, later, for any of the various reasons Louis did not feel like sharing Lestat’s bed.
“I will control myself better,” Lestat promised, lightly tugging on Louis’s hair in encouragement.
“It’s fine, I just wasn’t expecting it. You just try to relax and enjoy it.”
Lestat made an amused noise. “Okay, Louis, I will try my hardest to enjoy my first cocksucking in eighty years performed by the love of my immortal life.”
Louis decided that was entirely enough out of him and moved forward again to take Lestat into his mouth.
Truthfully, it had been a while since he’d sucked a cock. Armand didn’t tend to enjoy it. On the rare occasions they’d done it, Louis felt like Armand was making a special allowance for Louis’s sake, effectively ruining everything that made the experience erotic for him in the first place — giving your partner pleasure and compromising your own comfort, even if only in a small way, for the sake of their enjoyment. Feeling your partner’s appreciation in every throb of their cock, every helpless thrust into his mouth—
The hushed, whispered apologies in French that followed, each sharp tug of the long fingers tangled in his hair, the uncomfortable rigidness of the car floor mats beneath his knees. “Louis, Louis,” Lestat moaned. “Yes, mon coeur, just like that, you take me so well—”
Louis hummed appreciatively around Lestat’s cock. Lestat got the hint.
“You are so perfect on your knees,” he continued. “Your mouth was made for this, made for taking my cock. Just like every other part of you was made for me — yes, Louis — and the way I was made for you. I walked this Earth for one hundred and fifty years waiting to find you, my Louis, my companion…”
Louis swallowed around Lestat’s cock and, sensing that he was close, wrapped a hand around the part of him he couldn’t quite take down his throat. Out of practice, he thought.
“Louis, can I come in your mouth?” Lestat begged. Louis moved his head back long enough to tell him, “I won’t forgive you if you don’t,” and took Lestat back in as far as he could, nose bumping up against his own hand.
Lestat came with a spectacular, gratifying moan, thighs clenching around Louis’s head and blocking out the sounds of Lestat’s album still leaking from the speakers. Louis swallowed greedily and moved back to gently lick at the head of Lestat’s cock until his moans transformed into whimpers and finally he shoved at Louis’s head, unable to bear any more. Louis sat back in satisfaction, forgetting about the steering wheel behind him and slamming the back of his head into it. Mercifully, the horn failed to make any noise and Lestat was too blissed out to notice. They were never fucking in a car again, Louis swore. Unless it had a roomier interior.
Louis sat by Lestat and ran soothing hands over Lestat’s sides, murmuring quiet, reassuring words. After a few moments Lestat opened his eyes and fixed his gaze, now an alluring shade of violet, on Louis.
“Come here, mon cher,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you now.”
Louis pushed himself off his knees and climbed into Lestat’s arms, eagerly meeting Lestat’s mouth in an open-mouthed kiss. Lestat always did enjoy tasting himself in Louis’s mouth after a blowjob, although Louis knew it was a distant second to the pleasure of tasting his own blood from Louis’s lips. That particular intimacy would be reserved for a later night, too.
Louis’s pants came off without fuss, followed quickly by his underwear. Lestat wrapped one of his enormous hands around Louis and gave an experimental tug, swiped his thumb over the head of Louis’s cock to gather the moisture that had beaded up and used it to slick his way. This was what they’d done in Lestat’s apartment last year. On that final night, as they lay down to sleep, Louis was struck by the intimacy of sharing the coffin that Lestat would continue to sleep in every night after his departure. The one they’d shared in his hotel room had been hastily acquired and as a matter of necessity, Louis having forgone a coffin for the last decade. He did not even intend to bring it back to Dubai with him. Lestat’s new coffin, though, reminded Louis painfully of the one he’d kept in their old townhouse. As he climbed in after Lestat, he realized that excluding the first few nights after his turning, Louis rarely spent a night in Lestat’s coffin — when they slept together, it was in Louis’s.
They’d tried for a valiant twenty minutes to fall asleep. Beyond the coffin came the familiar noise of any city — horns honking and people shouting, police sirens and fleeting snippets of loud music blaring from a passing car. There was very little that distinguished it as New Orleans noise to Louis’s unpracticed ear. He focused instead of the sound of Lestat’s measured breaths, the occasional rustle of fabric as one of them shifted.
“Lestat, I can’t sleep,” Louis whispered finally, and Lestat turned over as if waiting for this signal, pulled Louis into his arms, tugged their pajama pants down and took them both in his hand.
Louis was surprised then by how well Lestat remembered precisely how he liked it. This time he knew better than to doubt his lover.
“Lestat,” he whimpered, touching his forehead to his lover’s. There was nothing else he could say. He’d been close the entire time he’d sucked Lestat off. “Lestat.”
“I know, cher,” Lestat whispered to him, his hand speeding up. “You can let go, Louis. I want you to come. My beautiful Louis. Come for me.”
Louis moaned and came, his hips jerking spasmodically a few more times as Lestat wrung the last drops of pleasure for him and he collapsed forward.
Lestat positioned Louis more firmly on the seat next to him and turned to curl into his side. It was several moments before he remembered that Lestat’s chest was now covered with his cum. He sat bolt upright.
“Lestat, careful!” he hissed. “You got cum all over the seat. This is a rental!” He grabbed for Lestat’s discarded shirt and began to dab at the mess on the seat.
“This is silk!” Lestat snapped, taking the shirt out of Louis’s hands. “And that is your cum, you might recall! Use your own shirt for cleanup, if you must.”
Louis fixed him with a disbelieving stare. Lestat folded in seconds.
“Forgive me, my love. I know not what I say. Let me take care of that for you.” Lestat dabbed gingerly with his shirt at the stained seat.
Louis allowed this to go on for a few more moments before waving him off, dismissing it as a bad job and tossing away the ruined shirt to join his even more destroyed pants. Lestat seemed to notice this fact at the same time he did.
“Louis, I am going to scandalize my housemates when I return home,” he whispered playfully in Louis’s ear. “And the paparazzi are always lurking around with their cameras…think of the tabloid covers come morning!”
“Are there paparazzi in San Francisco?” Louis wondered.
“Nosy neighbors with their smartphone cameras, then,” Lestat corrected. “Perhaps we should go for another round, pass the time until they fall asleep and I can sneak in.”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Give me a second, my suitcase is in the trunk. I’ll get you something to wear. Help me get my pants on.”
Louis was respectably dressed within moments. He opened the driver’s side door and retrieved his modestly sized suitcase from the trunk, frowning. He hadn’t planned on staying for longer than a few days and packed accordingly. Now it was impossible to imagine leaving any sooner than Lestat’s concert.
“Here you go,” he said as he ducked back into the car. “Get dressed and shift back over, babe, I’ll take you home.” He leaned in the car doorway, admiring the spectacle of Lestat shimmying into a pair of Louis’s pants.
“Hm, probably for the best,” Lestat agreed. “I must write. My muse has come again at last.”
“Yes, he has,” Louis agreed soundly, and Lestat laughed.
Within minutes, they were gliding down the highway toward Lestat’s house in some surrounding suburb. The congested city failed to offer sufficient privacy for either a vampire or a rockstar, let alone both, Lestat explained. He sat in the passenger seat with his feet tucked under him, his hair mussed up by their activities that the overly styled waves had mostly fallen out. Sitting there dressed comfortably in Louis’s clothes, it was easy to forget that Lestat had made such an abrupt lifestyle change.
“Monsieur Le Rock Star,” Louis murmured, mouth curled into a smile. Lestat turned his head to look at him disapprovingly.
“Eyes on the road, Louis,” he chastised. Louis’s smile grew. They drove in silence for a moment.
“What do you think, though?”
Louis looked over at him, confused. “About what?”
Lestat gestured to himself. “The rockstar look. Is it working for you?”
Louis huffed a laugh. “Lestat, you could walk around in a paper bag and I’d still want you. Of course you strutting around scantily clad in eyeliner works for me.”
Lestat looked pleased at this and turned to look out the window.
“Although, since you’re asking…”
Lestat’s head whipped around to look at him. “What?” he demanded.
“The hair could use some work.”
“Louis!” Lestat gasped, horrified.
“I’m sorry, Les, but you asked. Doesn’t Daniel have a hair and makeup team? You could use a little color on your lips while we’re at it.”
Lestat was agape. “I cannot believe this,” he muttered, incensed. “For my own lover to tell me I need a hair and makeup team—”
“Baby, you asked!”
Lestat pouted in the passenger seat for as long as it took them to pass two exits before he demanded, “What about my hair?”
Several more exits passed before Louis was able to reassure Lestat that yes, the highlights were working for him and no, he should not cut it unless he wanted Louis to be driven to violent acts. He was only saying that Lestat needed to return the crimper to whatever groupie he’d stolen it from and focus more on bringing the natural wave out of his hair.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s its own sort of look, very 70s glam,” Louis assured him. “And you’re handsome as hell no matter what.” He took a hand off the wheel and ran a finger down Lestat’s face. Lestat nipped at it playfully. “But maybe we could make some adjustments.” Lestat huffed.
Louis’s stomach clenched when the GPS alerted them that they were only ten minutes away from Lestat’s place. He wasn’t sure they’d actually resolved anything, he realized. Once more communication had fallen to the wayside of their libidos.
“So, is it back to Dubai with you, then?” Lestat asked. He had removed his legs from under himself and sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the dwindling number of minutes until they reached their destination.
“No,” Louis said. “I wasn’t even in Dubai when Daniel called me. I haven’t been there in weeks, actually.”
“Oh?” Lestat said. “Where have you been living these last weeks, then?”
“More like enduring,” Louis said with a self-deprecating smile. “And I’ve been all over. I flew in tonight from Vermont.”
“Vermont?” Lestat frowned. “Where the hell is that?”
Louis snorted.
“Doesn’t matter; you’d hate it there. I was thinking I’d stay here for a while, actually. I don’t want to miss The Vampire Lestat’s first stop on their tour, after all. You know anybody who could get me tickets? I don’t want it to sell out.”
Lestat’s expression softened but the joke failed to make him smile. “You’re staying till opening night, then?”
“Yes.”
“And then where?”
“I’m not sure. Where’s your second stop, anywhere good?”
Finally, a smile broke across Lestat’s face, bright and warm enough that Louis couldn’t imagine ever missing the sun. “And where will you stay tonight?”
“Tonight? I’ve made arrangements.” Daniel had offered to let Louis stay in his guest bedroom while he was in town. Louis would offer this information up except he was pretty sure Daniel had arranged it for the purpose of making a particular vampire jealous, and it wasn’t Lestat. “This you up here on the left?” he confirmed, jerking his head toward a huge glass monstrosity of a house set back from the curb by a meandering driveway and immaculate landscaping. “I thought I recognized the Porsche. How’s the gas mileage?”
“Oh, it’s horrible. A real gas-guzzler. I’m sure it’s terrible for the environment, to say nothing of my private jet, of course. A practice of which you must disapprove horribly, St. Louis.” His gaze flickered knowingly over the interior of the Tesla. “What were we saying? Oh, we were still pretending like you aren’t going to stay the night here. Come, Louis, bring your suitcase.” He made for the door handle before Louis laid a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Seriously, I’ve got a place to stay tonight. Ask me again tomorrow.”
Lestat looked at him with disbelief. “You’re not coming in?”
“I’m returning a favor for a friend tonight. Sort of.”
Lestat raised a scathing blond eyebrow. “A favor that must be repaid by you spending the night with this friend and enjoying their hospitality? Are we talking about the kind of favor you did me in that seat about thirty minutes ago?”
Louis gave his arm a reproachful squeeze. “Jesus, Lestat. That wasn’t a favor, baby, that was love.” He sighed and decided to come out with it. “I’m going to be very conspicuously — but platonically — sleeping at Daniel’s tonight.” Lestat’s gaze lit up first with comprehension and then mischief.
“I see. Well, poor man, don’t let me stand in his way. But after tonight, you’re mine. You’ll be pleased to know I have a bed suitably large for any number of activities…”
“Go write your songs,” Louis said, relinquishing his wrist. Lestat grabbed the door handle again.
“And you’ll pick me up tomorrow?”
“Sure, baby. I’ll get here early and we can swing by an Ulta or something on the way in.”
Lestat glowered at him. “How fortuitous, my love, I’m running dangerously low on my sea salt spray,” Lestat said.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Louis said, and leaned in for one last kiss goodnight. Lestat obliged him for several long moments and even allowed Louis to plant a kiss on one cold cheek before getting out of the car.
“Good night, Louis.” The door slammed shut behind him.
Louis watched as Lestat disappeared into the massive house. Once the front door closed safely behind him, he mapped the directions to Daniel’s place and pulled away from the curb. He only made it halfway down the street before he reached for the music controls and started The Vampire Lestat over from the beginning.