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Right before Louis returned to Dubai, he bought Lestat a phone.
He’d been nursing the idea for weeks, all while getting Lestat situated in a new, significantly less ramshackle flat (courtesy of Louis, despite Lestat’s large fortune still languishing across several Parisian banks) and helping Lestat furnish said flat (also courtesy of Louis) and updating his wardrobe with enough new garments (Louis, again) to fill every inch of the flat's unreasonably large closet and—well.
There was a dry voice in Louis’ head, one which now sounded unnervingly like Daniel’s, accusing him of being Lestat’s sugar daddy, oh how the tables have turned, etcetera. It also pointed out, with infuriating accuracy, that this was all very reminiscent of those slow, syrupy fall months of 1910, when Lestat was just an infuriatingly gorgeous foreigner whom Louis had taken it upon himself to acquaint to life in the New World. Right down to the clothes fittings, and strolls around Jackson Square, and late-night conversations, and pretending not to notice the way Lestat’s eyes lingered on his back, his fingers, the side of his neck.
And just like back then, the not-Daniel voice reminded him, you’re telling yourself that you two are nothing more than very good friends.
Maybe so. Louis ignored this voice, staunchly and reflexively, in a way that had been perfected over a century’s worth of practice.
The point was, after all, what was a phone on top of that? It was the 21st century; it made sense for Lestat to have one.
“You can message me,” Louis said, as Lestat poked around the home screen, examining the pre-loaded apps.
“I could,” Lestat said. Louis couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.
He’d asked Louis to help him set up the phone, claimed it was all so new and overwhelming , turned big wet blue eyes on him until Louis acquiesced, embarrassingly quickly. There was no way Lestat was actually as tech-illiterate as he was pretending to be. He had an iPad, for god’s sake, and a speaker that must have cost more than everything else in that shack combined. He had a seemingly endless collection of playlists on Spotify. Louis had seen him scrolling through them, once or twice, although Lestat was always very careful to angle the screen away before Louis could catch more than a glimpse of their contents.
Lestat had always been good at picking up new technologies, fascinated by new developments. He was the one who was always carting home shiny but useless gadgets to stuff their home on Rue Royale with, dragging Louis and Claudia out to the cinema to gush over avant-garde filmmaking techniques.
Or, at least, that was what he’d done eighty years ago. What he did now, Louis had no idea, beyond what he’d managed to learn about this new and unsettlingly fragile Lestat over the few weeks of their tentative re-acquaintance.
“But I could email you, too?" Lestat was saying. "My iPad has email installed. It is like exchanging letters, I find. I dictate them to Siri.”
“Sure,” Louis said, trying not to think about the last of Lestat’s letters he'd read. Instead, he wondered who Lestat had been emailing, or who’d been emailing him. “But I usually use emails for business. Texting is faster. Easier.”
“Hmm,” Lestat said. “More personable, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes,” Louis said, relieved that Lestat had been the one to voice that particular thought. “And we could…” He swallowed. Why was he so hesitant? After the last few weeks, spending nearly every hour in each other’s company, this one suggestion should not be nearly so outrageous. “We could call too.”
Lestat blinked. “Like with video?”
“Um. If you want.” Louis gripped the handle of his packed carry-on so hard the plastic threatened to crack.
Texting was fine. Texting was safe. As much as he could pretend otherwise, Louis knew that the moment he saw Lestat’s face, heard his voice, even from the safety of a tinny phone speaker, his carefully constructed resolve would be weakened, bit by bit.
Just like that first night back. He’d planned on just finding Lestat, saying what he needed to say to bring both of them closure, and leaving. He hadn’t planned on gathering Lestat up in his arms, clutching at him desperately, even as Lestat’s shack all but collapsed around them. He hadn’t planned on dragging Lestat out and through the hurricane, back to his hotel, offering to share his coffin because of course he’d only brought one, why would he have done otherwise? Canceling the flight back to Dubai that he'd had booked for the next night, and extending his stay at the hotel.
It had all just happened, the actions flowing into each other so naturally he hadn’t even stopped to question them, like in a dream. That was what it had felt like, from the instant he’d met Lestat’s eyes.
Then he’d woken up the next night, wrapped in Lestat’s arms. The dream faded. Louis knew he couldn’t stay. He could stick around for a while, help get Lestat back on his feet, so to speak, but he couldn’t stay. They needed their time apart, both of them. Lestat hadn’t disagreed. He’d said, “I know. Whatever you need, Louis,” and smiled, and Louis had tried not to notice the sadness there, although it was so evident on Lestat’s expressive face.
Now, Lestat was smiling at him again, this time big and unguarded in that way Louis had used to find simultaneously endearing and infuriating. Lestat wore all his emotions so openly. His face hid absolutely nothing. Louis had no idea how he could just live like that. “Of course I do, Louis,” he said. “I would love nothing more.”
It had been five nights since returning from New Orleans, and Lestat hadn’t called. Not that Louis had been waiting for him to, of course.
He texted. He texted a lot. There'd been a message waiting for Louis once he got off the plane.
Dear Louis,
By the time this message reaches you, I assume you will have arrived back in Dubai. I hope you had a safe and pleasant flight, and that it was not plagued by any of these infernal storms. I must once again convey my immense gratitude for all your assistance these past few weeks. I feel as though I have been lifted from a wretched existence and into this bright and exciting new world, and I cannot express how much of a comfort it has been to have your steadfast company as I adjusted.
I must admit that this electronic correspondence is largely devoid of the glamor and mystique of the ink-and-paper letters to which I am accustomed, but this is more than compensated for by the fact that, as you claim, our messages will reach each other in the blink of an eye.
I understand you must be quite busy with your business expenditures, but I hope I shall hear from you again soon. I await your reply with bated breath. In the meantime, I will attach this photograph in the manner you have instructed me: a most enormous owl, right in our usual Jackson Square haunt. It is a shame it did not reveal itself before your visit ended. A stunning creature, is it not? And how wonderful, that these miniscule cameras are able to capture such detailed images in such low light. I can see each individual feather—truly a marvel. Do let me know your thoughts soon, mon ami.
Yours,
Lestat de Lioncourt
sent 4:17 AM
Louis stared at the message. Lestat was so full of shit. Louis knew he was still fixated on the email thing.
Still, he pressed his fingers to the screen of his phone. The same way he’d done to Lestat’s letter in Roget’s office. Maybe Lestat had a point about paper correspondence, after all. He would’ve seen the curls of Lestat’s elaborate script. Maybe traces of Lestat’s cologne would have lingered.
Maybe it was better they stick with phones.
He replied on the way back to the penthouse, and Lestat responded nearly immediately, which Louis tried not to find gratifying. He continued to message Louis throughout the next few nights, in sporadic but frequent bursts. He eventually admitted that not every message needed to be composed like a longform letter—which Louis was certain he’d known from the very beginning—and also discovered emojis, which seemed to delight him to no end. Then he discovered gifs, which all but sent him into raptures.
Lestat evidently remained quite taken by the capabilities of modern phone cameras, because every night Louis received a long string of photos documenting things Lestat claimed to find fascinating, accompanied by flowery captions. Soggy leaves on the sidewalk. Raindrops glittering the glow of a streetlamp. A plastic bag in the wind.
His actual messages contained nothing but the most inane of details. Where he’d gone wandering, what architectural changes he found particularly fascinating, some new documentary he’d watched, how many tourists he’d eaten. He sounded like he was, once again, the gregarious vampire of Louis’ memory.
He sounded, as far as Louis could tell, like he was doing just fine on his own. So Louis absolutely did not feel guilty for leaving him by himself in New Orleans. Despite what certain nosy, recently-turned fledglings might suggest.
Louis replied, dutifully enough. He imagined that the incessant stream of messages might become aggravating, sooner rather than later. Yet, he found himself smiling every time he heard the phone ding. Maybe they were just a welcome reprieve from his routine slew of nightly tasks: email chains, investment decisions, client meetings and the like. Yes, that was it: much in the same way that he enjoyed his and Daniel’s regular chats.
Lestat still didn’t call.
Louis scrolled his email, reading none of it. Whether Lestat called or not should not a matter of any significance. He was nearly two hundred years old. He and Lestat had already gone through the whole date-marry-divorce process. Maybe a little bloodier than normal, but regardless. He should not be shuffling his feet and staring at the phone like a youth awaiting a call from their paramour. He should especially not be pulling up Lestat’s contact. He should be replying to his outstanding emails, or going through the stack of resumes to hire a replacement for Rashid.
Fuck, he thought, and hit the call button.
Almost immediately, Lestat picked up. The lighting, wherever he was, was terrible. Was he in his coffin, still, near midnight? His hair was a mess of unbrushed blonde curls. At this angle, Louis could see up his nose. This served only to make the way Louis’ breath hitched, at the mere sight of him, all the more embarrassing.
“Louis,” Lestat said, casual as anything. “I was just thinking about you. I saw a large rat, and was reminded of your previous dietary preferences. I meant to take a photograph, but the beast scurried off.”
"Yeah?" So this was how Lestat wanted to play it? "I figured by this point, you'd be the rat expert, not me."
"Of course, of course, I forgot how you now subsist on farm-raised ethically-sourced blood. But yes, I was very particular about my diet, I’ll admit. I always told Felix—my assistant, by the way, I heard he has moved to Saskatchewan now, où que ce soit—to select only the plumpest specimens, with the shiniest coats. You know it does wonders for the mouthfeel, Louis."
“I’m sure.” Louis had, personally, tried to think about it as little as possible at the time. “So. Are we just gonna talk about rats, Lestat?”
Lestat sniffed, and tilted his chin up. It did little to disguise the suddenly guarded look in his eyes. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about, Louis?”
In for a penny. “Not really. Just thought I’d call, to remind you that it’s something you can do. In case you’d already forgotten.”
It was a clear hook, and Lestat latched onto it. “Perhaps, perhaps. It was all a bit of a whirlwind, at the end.”
“You seem to have gotten that iPad of yours set up just fine.”
“Felix was there to assist me. Now, alas, he has moved on to bigger and better things in life. Perhaps you should return and show me once more how to—” He stopped. Uncomfortable silence settled. Louis tried to think of a way to break it, but Lestat was continuing: “Désolé. Sorry, I know. Boundaries.”
The dim light had hid it before, but there were circles under Lestat's eyes. His cheekbones were prominent.
“Lestat,” Louis started.
"Don't say it," Lestat said quickly. "I will not…anyways. As I was saying. Saskatchewan? What is that, some remote little village in the Appalachachian?"
"It’s a province, and you know that," Louis replied, on autopilot. It wasn't what he wanted to say. What that was, he wasn't really sure.
What a strange new world, where Lestat gave a single fuck about boundaries. It knocked Louis off-balance. There was a way their dynamic worked: Lestat, utterly uncaring of social norms and politeness and what healthy relationships should be; and Louis, feigning reluctance, so that he could still maintain the illusion of composure, of normalcy. Lestat took what he wanted, and Louis let him take, and it was easy, and familiar.
Lestat, for his part, had committed to his clumsy redirection of the conversation, and was currently chattering on about…something to do with Walmart. Louis did his best to regain track. And, later, when Lestat asked if he would call again, he said, “Sure, as long as you ain’t too busy hunting down rats and paper bags,” and Lestat smiled. And Louis had ended the call, feeling flayed and seen in a way he hadn’t since New Orleans.
He put it down to having drunk nothing since the previous night. He drained two bags of AB+ in a row, and opened his emails again.
Against his better judgment, he called Lestat nearly every night after that. He forced himself to restrain for stretches, when he remembered to feel vaguely embarrassed about what he was doing, before the bone-deep need to see Lestat again overcame that particular virtue. Story of Louis' life. It was becoming increasingly apparent that eighty years apart had done absolutely nothing to strengthen Louis’ defenses against Lestat’s gravitational pull.
They talked about everything, and nothing at all. Lestat might have spent fifty years refusing to leave that shack of his, but he’d managed to keep abreast of certain modern cultural developments. Very selectively. When Louis had mentioned something about the space shuttle, Lestat stared at him in abject confusion. “There are humans? In space?”
“For quite a while now, yeah.” Then, when Lestat did nothing but blink at him guilelessly, “Come on! You can’t not know.”
“Louis,” Lestat said, “you know a lot of these futuristic inventions are quite mysterious to me. You will have to be patient, I’m afraid, I am still learning.” Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“Bullshit,” Louis said, absolutely indignant. “Go read about it on Wikipedia.” Another development that had delighted Lestat to no end.
“But Louis,” Lestat sighed, “it makes so much more sense when you explain it.”
Lestat could act all innocent, but he’d flung himself into the throes of popular culture with verve.The night before, he had spent the better part of an hour bringing Louis up to speed on the minutiae of some D-list celebrity’s dating life, relayed with a frankly alarming amount of detail. Lestat had discovered TikTok and Instagram and a slew of social media apps Louis had never even heard of and now he peppered his speech with online parlance that was, even to Louis’ untrained ears, horrendously butchered. He waded into online fights with relish, and more often than not, afterwards came complaining to Louis about how he’d been cyberbullied. “They called me a boomer. A boomer, Louis! Do they even know what that means? I am over two hundred years old!”
Eventually, they began to talk about Claudia again. Not often, and not for long stretches. It was somewhat easier for Louis, after the interview, but it was still difficult for Lestat. It felt wrong, somehow, to be talking about her over the phone. Too impersonal. But what other choice was there?
Lestat asked him if he had any photos remaining. Quietly, like he was afraid Louis would say no. Louis sent him copies of photos they’d had taken back in New Orleans, and then of ones he’d taken in Paris. A raw, tender part of him still ached to look at these, and thrashed at the thought of showing them to anyone, even Lestat. Especially Lestat.
But Lestat didn’t comment on them. He just thanked Louis and then, a week later, informed him that he’d gotten them framed. He spotted them sometimes on the walls of Lestat’s apartment when Lestat became particularly animated, and felt the need to pace. One, he saw, was on Lestat’s new piano. Louis said nothing, and Lestat didn’t ask him to.
“So you still wanna fuck him,” Daniel said. “Why are you telling me? Just go for it.”
“I don’t want to fuck him,” Louis said. He scowled down at his fridge. He was nearly out of A-; he’d need to resupply.
“Right, I forgot. You don’t wanna fuck him, you wanna date him—you wanna make sweet tender love to him, and renew your vampiric vows. Maybe this time around, you can be the one putting your fist through some poor priest’s head.”
“This was a mistake.” Louis grabbed a bag of B- instead, and headed back to the dining room.
The thing was, Louis had tried to keep things as platonic as he could. Really tried. This was what they'd agreed on, after all. It was what they needed to do.
And, to Lestat's credit, he’d given little indication of wanting anything more. He was so cordial and friendly it made Louis gnash his teeth. The very first time he’d spoken to Lestat, he’d all but undressed Louis with his eyes, and called him a saint. Lestat shouldn’t be capable of being cordial.
Louis should have been thankful. Instead, it made him want to gnash his teeth and snarl and tilt his head deliberately to bare his neck when they spoke. Just to see what Lestat would do.
(The answer was: nothing untoward beyond swallowing hard and ending the call earlier than usual. Louis wanted to hurl his phone at the wall).
It wasn’t fair to either of them. Louis needed time for himself. Lestat did too.
Each night that passed, it became harder and harder to remind himself of that.
When Lestat described his night’s activities, Louis wanted to be there with him. He wanted to stroll through galleries with Lestat, to go to movie theatres together, to watch the way Lestat’s eyes lit up as he saw the special effects. He wanted the thrill of a shared hunt. He listened to Lestat’s smooth, low voice, rendered a tinny edge by the speakers, and ached to hear it in person. The phone camera, as advanced as it was, could barely capture the exact, iridescent shade of Lestat’s eyes.
He needed to stay away from Lestat, because that was the right and healthy thing to do at this stage in their lives. He wanted to catch the first flight to New Orleans. He wanted to whisk Lestat away, right here to Dubai.
When he’d caught himself idly checking plane tickets, he’d called Daniel. Daniel, who had never been hesitant to call Louis on his bullshit, and that was when he’d been human . Daniel was good at seeing right to the heart of things. Daniel would tell him what he needed to hear.
Daniel was, evidently, a traitor.
"I'm just saying! You make a ton of excuses, Louis, but that's all just going round and round to the fact that you miss him. Did you know your voice sounds different when you smile?"
“It doesn’t.” Louis snipped off a corner of the blood bag, then remembered he’d forgotten to fetch a glass. Damn it.
“Fuck off, it does. I heard you talk a lot, if you’ll recall. Anyways, the point is, that smiley voice of yours—that’s exactly what you sound like when you talk about your little late night calls with Lestat. You’ve got it bad.”
"And so what if I do!” Fuck the glass. Louis took a swig of the blood, straight from the bag. “Ain’t gonna happen. Chances are, we’ll just fuck it up again, and we’ll end up killing each other.”
“Kinky. And who’s to say you will? You’re both older and wiser. Well, at least you are—from what you’ve described, Lestat sounds like a chronically online freakshow, but what’s new, I guess. The heart wants what it wants.” A pause. “Sorry about that. Guy I was stalking just got into a cab and—anyways. As I was saying. Just go for it, man. Sweep him off his feet.”
"I," Louis said very slowly, "am trying to be normal and healthy about this. For once."
"Sure. When have you ever been normal and healthy about Lestat?"
“Never, and look where that got us.”
"Fine, then! Stay away for another eighty years and make yourselves both miserable. Maybe after all that you could hit me up for another interview. I'll write a sequel."
"You," Louis said, "have been unhelpful."
"Not here to help, Louis, that’s not my job. But take my advice anyways. I've been married twice, remember? I think I know what I’m talking about. Think about it."
“I’m not thinking about anything,” Louis said, and severed the connection as decisively as he could.
Louis thought about it.
He was still thinking about it when he spoke with Lestat later. His efforts to not think about it were not helped in the slightest by the fact that Lestat appeared to be wearing eyeliner. Inexpertly applied, but it made his eyes look even bluer than usual.
“Am I boring you, Louis?” Lestat asked eventually, and it was clearly taking a great deal of effort for him not to pout.
“A bit. Only so much I can care about rock, you know.”
“Louis, how dare you! You love rock!”
“You love rock, Lestat.”
“You are trying to make me cry, it appears. But it shall not work! I rise above your cruel taunts.” Lestat tossed his hair over his shoulder. He was wearing it long again, not trimming it nightly like he’d done for a stretch of years when that style had been à la mode. “When I am a famous rockstar, I will make you eat your fiendish words.”
“I look forward to seeing you try,” Louis said. Lestat had been talking about composing again, but he hadn’t let Louis hear any of his new songs. The magic was lost over the phone, he claimed. Louis had heard him compose hundreds of pieces back in Rue Royale, reading on the couch as Lestat discarded and refined draft after draft, letting the music wash over him even as Lestat swore and grumbled. If he was in New Orleans now…
Louis shook his head. Lestat was watching him, something like concern in his eyes. “If there is something bothering you, Louis,” he said, “you can tell me. I can try to help. If you want.”
“It’s nothing, really. I’ve just been distracted.”
“Business troubles?”
“Something like that.”
“Well. I am no great entrepreneur like you, but my offer stands.”
“I’ll take you up on it,” Louis said. “Maybe tomorrow night, though.” He was exhausted—he hadn’t realized quite how much.
“Of course, of course. The dawn approaches.” Lestat smiled. Louis smiled back, helplessly. “Bonne nuit, mon cher,” Lestat murmured, then froze, staring at Louis with something like fear. Louis couldn’t tell why, at first. Nothing he’d said had sounded out of the ordinary. Then Lestat’s words caught up to his sun-leadened brain and—
“Wait! Don’t hang up,” Louis said urgently.
“My apologies,” Lestat said, airy, nonchalant. He’d angled the camera away from himself, but Louis could still see his hands: fingers intertwined, twisting together. “I find myself slipping into old habits, sometimes. Revisiting old turns of phrases. You know how it is.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Louis said. His voice sounded distant, far away. He was just replaying those words. Mon cher. Mon cher. The first time he’d heard them from Lestat, the real Lestat, in over eighty years.
“Pay it no mind, please,” Lestat continued. Words coming out faster, tripping over each other. “It is an online turn of phrase. Les jeunes, they use it to refer to their internet friends. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean it?”
Louis didn’t know what Lestat heard in his voice, but he reappeared back in the frame. The mask cracked. Expressive mouth twisted, eyes downcast. “Of course I meant it. I’ll always mean it. But I know it’s not what you want to hear from me. Not anymore.”
Louis stared at him. He couldn’t speak. A string, once again, tied around his lungs.
“Please don’t stop calling,” Lestat said. Pleaded. “I won’t overstep again.”
“I,” Louis managed. He was thinking of what Lestat said. He was thinking of the tickets to New Orleans, the tab still open on his laptop. If he left now, in the next two hours, he could be there by the next night. “I think I might want you to. Overstep, that is.”
Lestat’s expression shifted. Misery, to confusion, to something like hope. “Louis? What do you mean? Do not let me misunderstand, I beg you.”
Louis couldn’t do this. Not with an ocean between them. “I have to go,” he said. Two hours. “Just. Stay right there, okay?”
Louis probably should’ve given Lestat a heads up—on the way to the airport, or on the plane, or in the cab on the way to Lestat’s flat. That would’ve been the sensible, polite thing to do. As it was, he was still trying to work out exactly what he’d say—there was a half formed script, still a work in progress—by the time he walked up to Lestat’s door and knocked.
It opened immediately, just enough for Lestat to poke his head out. He looked about as guarded as he ever could—which was to say, infinitesimally so. He was in the burgundy silk robe Louis had picked out for him months ago. His hair was unbrushed, and he was still in eyeliner, although it was smudged tellingly. There was blood smeared at the corner of his mouth—Louis supposed he’d been taking advantage of the blood bag delivery service he’d set him up with.
The script, Louis thought. “Hello, Lestat.”
“Hello, Louis.” Lestat wiped his mouth.
“Are you gonna let me in?”
“...Yes.” Not exactly promising, but Lestat swung the door open wider, and Louis stepped through. Lestat closed it behind him, and stood against it, staring at Louis with something like wariness.
Louis took a step closer. He couldn’t help it. He’d known it all along—the first sight of Lestat, and he’d fall right back into his orbit. Lestat’s eyes widened, and his fingers clutched at the belt of his robe.
The script, Louis thought. He couldn’t remember a single word.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Lestat said. “I’d have cleaned up if I’d known you were coming. Here for a business trip?”
“Of a sort.” He took a step closer, so that they were standing nearly chest-to-chest. The inch of space between them felt scorching, electrified.
Lestat's gaze flickered from Louis' eyes down to his lips, and back. "If—if you need accommodations for your trip, I’d be more than happy to host you of course, but I think the amenities of a hotel would be more—"
Louis took one more step, and kissed him.
He'd meant to keep it reserved. Gentle. But Lestat made this noise, like he was shocked, and Louis found himself surging up against him, pressing him back up against the door. Hands on Lestat’s neck, holding him in place. It felt like puzzle pieces slotting seamlessly into place, just like it had standing holding each other in that shack while the hurricane raged around them. How could it have felt like anything else?
Lestat was whimpering. His hands flitted restlessly over Louis' body, shoulders to waist to chest. Clenching in the fabric of Louis’ shirt, and releasing almost instantly. When Louis licked into his mouth, running his tongue deliberately along the sharp points of his fangs, Lestat hissed. He clutched at Louis, finally, finally, crushing Louis to his chest, as Louis felt their mouths flood with hot blood. A shiver wracked Lestat’s entire body and he moaned at the taste of it, loud and unabashed.
And then he pushed Louis away—only weakly, and immediately pulled him back in, but it was enough to lend Louis some measure of coherence. He stared at Lestat, gulping in harsh, rapid breaths. Lestat looked—like a wreck, there was no better way of putting it. Louis wanted him so much he could barely stay upright.
“Is this the business trip? Am I the business? What happened to taking things slow?” Lestat breathed, managing a passable imitation of Louis’ accent, as his hands rubbed circles at Louis’ waist. Still being a brat, even at this moment. Louis couldn’t believe him. He gave Lestat’s hair a hard, mean tug in retaliation.
“I think it’s been slow enough,” he said. “Don’t you?”
"I," Lestat started. He seemed suddenly small and fragile, and Louis, for the first time since he’d arrived, really allowed himself to doubt.
"Lestat, if this ain’t what you want…”
Lestat laughed. Actually laughed, loud and with a definite note of hysteria. The familiar twinge of annoyance cut through Louis’ arousal, sharpened it. "Louis. Mon cher. How can you think I don't want this? I want it more than you can imagine. I have wanted nothing else for the last century. Every time I see your beautiful face…hear your dulcet voice…read the sweet words you send to me over the text…it is like I am being consumed by your flame.”
“Okay.”
“You occupy my every waking thought, and my dreams. Every time I hear the chime of your incoming message, the tones of your call, my heart gallops so hard I can scarcely breathe. I see you everywhere, and I long for you to be here with me. I would drown myself in you, sink willingly into the depths of your lovely embrace—”
“Okay—”
Lestat’s voice took on a distinctly tearful edge. “I won’t ask you to say anything in return, but you need to know. I love you, Louis. I never stopped. You know, don’t you?”
Lestat was crying. Bloody tears tracing down his cheeks, to match the blood on his lips. Louis wiped them away. "I know," he whispered. He did know. He’d always known, even when he hadn’t wanted to.
“So if you want this to just be a…a casual thing, that's fine. If you want a—comme se dit—situationship, if you want to hit it and quit it, fine.” Lestat gritted the words out. “But for me—"
Louis kissed him again. It was impossible not to. "It's not casual. I could never be casual about you.” For better or for worse, it was true. One of the few constants in Louis’ life. Daniel’s words again: When have you ever been normal about Lestat?
More tears. Lestat’s entire face was bloody now. It was always so easy to make him cry. Louis shouldn’t have liked it as much as he did. He cupped Louis’ face with those big hands of his, kissed him again. Over and over.
They made it to the bedroom, somehow. Louis barely knew they’d been heading there till he felt his knees hit the bed. He let himself fall backwards onto it, legs parting. He pulled Lestat down by the front of his robe and Lestat followed easily, readily. His mouth still trembled, but there was something dark and intent in his gaze, and Louis, with a shiver, thought he resembled nothing more than a large, obedient wolf.
“You been eating well, lately?” Louis asked, although he already knew the answer.
Lestat frowned in clear confusion. “Yes, but—”
“Good.” Louis leaned forward, cupped Lestat’s cock through the robe. Lestat moaned, high and shocked. His hands shot out and gripped Louis’ shoulders, pinpricks of pain where his nails pierced his skin. “‘Cause I really want you to fuck me, and I don’t want you swooning halfway through. Can you do that for me, baby?”
A split second to admire the way Lestat’s pupils dilated rapidly, and then he was on Louis again, kissing him with the savage fervency Louis had been craving from the start. Knocking him backwards onto the mattress, pressing him down with his full weight. Louis squirmed, delighted. He’d never admitted it to Lestat, but he loved when he did this, and Lestat had known, and remembered, after all.
He hooked a leg over Lestat's waist, arched his hips up till they ground against Lestat’s. He shoved at the burgundy robe with growing frustration, would’ve just ripped the thing to shreds if Lestat hadn’t caught on and shrugged it off. He was wearing nothing underneath—of course, Louis thought, with growing fondness.
“You too, s'il te plaît.” Lestat pawed at Louis’ shirt, looking injured when Louis swatted his hands away. Like it was physically painful not to be touching him. Louis felt much the same, but—
“Wait.” Lestat’s hands stilled instantly. “Lemme just—I need to look at you.” He pushed and they moved together, a well-worn dance; Lestat rolling over onto his back, Louis atop him, straddling his lap. He sat up, and felt his breath catch. The sight was nothing new, of course, but after eighty years, Louis was unprepared for the rush of desire that swept through him to see Lestat like this. It gave way to something aching, and so familiar.
He swept his hands over the familiar planes of Lestat's chest. Pressed his palms flat against the skin and felt the fine tremors, Lestat’s hummingbird pulse. He was staring up at Louis and panting, actually panting. Always so reactive. Louis thumbed at a nipple, on instinct, and Lestat thrashed with a desperate-sounding, “Louis”, which he ignored. It was intoxicating, having Lestat like this. Louis had once spread him out and spent an entire evening just touching, greedily cataloging every reaction as Lestat squirmed and wailed and begged increasingly incoherently, and then Louis had ridden him till he sobbed. He wanted to do just that, again. Find out what had changed, and what had remained the same.
Later, though, some other time, because Lestat was batting at his hands and saying, “Louis, Louis, I must warn you, I fear…I may be rather out of practice. If you keep touching me like this—I do not want to disappoint, but—”
“Right now, there’s nothing you could do that would disappoint me,” Louis told him, with more honesty than he’d intended. He found himself adding, “Thought about this so much. Wanted it for years.”
Lestat looked like he’d hung the moon. “You did?”
“Yeah.” The Louis of eighty years ago, two nights ago, two hours ago, would have been mortified to be saying shit like this. The Louis of right now couldn’t care less. “This gorgeous mouth of yours, sucking me off.” He hooked a finger in Lestat’s plush lower lip, dragging it down, tracing Lestat’s fangs. “Your tongue, your fingers. Thought about them a lot.”
Lestat was whimpering now, rutting up against Louis with no finesse whatsoever, the heat of him scorching even through the layers of fabric. Louis ground back deliberately, and Lestat clutched his waist. “Louis, please—chéri, j’ai besoin de toi…”
“Think I missed this most of all,” Louis whispered. “Your cock, filling me up. You know, I’d fuck myself sometimes, with my fingers, but it was never enough, it was never what I really needed—” Overcome by a sudden madness, he extended his hand, wrist pressed to Lestat’s gasping mouth. “Drink,” he said.
“Louis, are you sure?” Lestat said, even as he clasped Louis’ arm, pressing it closer. Hot breath over thin, sensitive skin.
“Do it.” Lestat’s fangs were glinting, and the blue of his eyes was completely eclipsed. He looked every inch the predator Louis had fallen in love with. “I want you to feel it.” Lestat nodded just once, and his fangs sank in. He kept his eyes fixed on Louis’ the entire time.
Louis watched his throat work as he swallowed in huge, desperate pulls, drinking him down. With each pulse Lestat seemed to glow, to become more solid, more real, right there under him. Louis felt enraptured by the sight, dizzy in ways that had nothing to do with the blood. He barely registered that Lestat was coming until he released Louis’ wrist to gasp, hips jerking frantically beneath him.
Louis was vaguely aware that his own mouth was twisted in a snarl, his fangs emerging. Lestat may have just fed, but he felt ravenous. He bent and kissed Lestat’s neck, then sank his teeth in. Not hard enough to break the skin. Just hard enough to hold Lestat in place as he shook apart.
“I’m sorry,” Lestat said, once he was capable of words again. “I was—quite overcome. Your blood, Louis, mon ange, it is like the sweetest nectar to me, like the most intoxicating wine,” and a thousand other flowery similes besides, but Louis, incandescent with want, barely heard them.
He kissed Lestat until his blathering stopped, and then breathed, "Do I look like I care? I need you, now."
“Of course,” Lestat murmured, “of course. Anything for you.” He rolled Louis back over onto his back. Pushed Louis' knees up and apart. “What do you need, mon cher? Tell me, please.”
Unbelievably, this was what made Louis flush. It was one thing to say these things with Lestat half out of his mind with need. It was another thing entirely when Lestat was clear-headed after his orgasm, eyes dark and wet but focused. Intent.
“Think I told you already,” he murmured, scratching behind Lestat’s hair. Lestat leaned into the touch, gaze never once leaving Louis’. Louis felt pinned down, trapped, even more surely than he had under Lestat’s actual body. Once he would’ve felt vulnerable, uncomfortably so. Now, he welcomed the feeling. It was what he’d been chasing all these months, wasn’t it? Lestat’s gentlemanly veneer stripped away, exposing just how much he wanted Louis. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”
“How could I forget?” Lestat turned his head, nuzzled Louis’ palm. "To hear those words falling from your lips — merde, the sweetest torment. Tell me again, Louis, please."
"I want your fingers in me," Louis said. He considered teasing, but was past the point of patience. "Your mouth on me. Open me up, get me ready for your cock."
"D'accord," Lestat whispered, and paused. Sheepish. "Although. I should mention. I am not currently in possession of any…lubrication."
Louis snorted. Of course. "Do you think it matters? You get so wet for me, baby—” Lestat’s cock was, true enough, dripping onto the sheets—“it's not like we need anything else."
"Louis!" Lestat gasped, as if he had any right to be scandalized. "The things you say!" His half-hard cock twitched again, very noticeably, but he started prattling on about not wanting to hurt Louis, wanting this reunion to be precious and effervescent, and a lot of other stuff that Louis was too impatient to listen to, so he took pity and sent Lestat off to rummage through his carry-on for the lube and nail clippers he'd (optimistically) packed. He shed his own clothes in the meantime, and was sprawled over Lestat's bed by the time he got back. Eyes half-lidded, lazily fisting his cock, feigning nonchalance as best as it could when it felt like he was going to combust if he went another second without touching Lestat.
"Don't drop the lube," he warned, when Lestat burst back in and froze in the doorway, looking so shocked it was almost comical. "It's expensive."
"Ah yes, monsieur rich big shot art dealer requires only the most costly, high-end lubricant to attend to himself," Lestat said, even as his gaze was dragging over every single inch of Louis’ exposed body. Like Louis was a feast, and Lestat had been starved for ages.
"I don't wanna hear it," Louis shot back, spreading his legs wider as Lestat crawled onto the bed and between them. "Not when you used to have that fancy French shit imported by the jugful, because regular oil wasn't good enough—"
"It was scented, Louis! With the ideal viscosity! And you enjoyed it, I know you did!" Lestat dipped down to kiss him, slow and deep. Louis twined his arms around his neck. He’d had a retort ready, but by the time Lestat broke away, sitting back on his heels, he’d quite forgotten what it was.
“You are so beautiful,” Lestat murmured, sliding his hand down from Louis’ throat, to his chest, to the crease of his hip. “The most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
Louis clutched the sheets, and he resisted the urge to look away. Lestat’s hands were so big. Nearly spanning Louis’ entire waist. “You just gonna talk? Thought I already told you what I wanted you to do.”
“You did. But I just felt overcome with the need to tell you, chéri. You cannot ever hear it enough. I am sure the gremlin did not say it as often as you deserved.” Louis rolled his eyes, but chose to ignore this jab because Lestat’s hands were on the backs of Louis’ thighs now, stroking maddening circles there. Holding Louis open, so Lestat’s hungry gaze could see everything. “May I…”
“Do it,” Louis said. “Or have you forgotten how?”
“I could never, ” Lestat said, very seriously, sounding affronted at the very notion. “I dedicated myself to learning every inch of your beautiful body, everything that makes you cry out so wonderfully—I made myself a scholar of it, so that I could bring you to the very heights of pleasure—”
“Then stop talking and show me.”
Lestat did. He really did remember, Louis thought wildly, as Lestat proceeded to take him apart with the same unfaltering skill and enthusiasm he dedicated to his piano. Fingers skating over Louis’ skin, wrapping around his cock and wringing sounds out of him with a musician’s surety, as he licked over Louis’ hole. Rough, no finesse. It was the best thing Louis had felt in years. He threw his head back, groaning. He’d fucked more men than he could count in the eighty years they’d been separated, but Lestat was the only one who made him feel so unmoored, adrift, anchored only by Lestat’s hands and mouth. All he could do was fist Lestat’s hair and hold on.
"You love doing this, don't you?" he managed. "You always have."
Lestat whined right against him, and oh, wasn't that something. He broke away to say something, most likely effusive and unbearably saccharine, and Louis shoved him right back down.
Lestat worked him over till he was sloppy, dripping onto the sheets, and then he was slipping one thick finger into him, then another. “I thought about this especially,” Lestat admitted in a whisper. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on where his fingers were sliding into Louis. Three fingers now, rubbing unerringly against that spot that made Louis’ vision go white with pleasure. Eighty years had evidently done nothing to diminish Lestat’s muscle memory. “I tried not to, because I knew you would loathe the thought of me using your memory like that. But chéri—I could not help it. Especially when you spoke to me, so sweetly, and showed me your lovely neck, and all I wanted to do was—oh yes, make that noise again for me…”
Louis imagined it: Lestat, weak and haggard on the blood of nothing but rats, still finding it within him to want Louis. The way Louis had been wanting him all those years. Lestat, taking himself in hand the moment he’d ended a call with Louis, aching and desperate and trying to hide it. Tell me, he wanted to say. But not now. Now, he just wanted—
“Inside,” he bit out. He reached down and grabbed Lestat’s wrist, stilling him. “Lestat, now.”
Lestat seemed to stop breathing. He slid his fingers out, and Louis barely had a second to whine at the sudden emptiness before he was lining up, steadying himself. He thrust once, twice, barely catching at Louis’ entrance, until Louis was snarling in frustration, ready to claw up the pillow, or Lestat’s shoulder, whatever was closer, and then he was finally sliding in, spearing Louis open. Louis tossed his head back, gasping silently. It felt so right—the stretch of it, just the right side of painful. The heat, the solidity.
"Louis," Lestat sighed, voice ragged. It was so deep. It shouldn't have been possible. He cupped Louis’ cheek, and his hands were shaking. "Mon amour, you're—tu es trop—"
Louis wanted to tease him. He always did, when he managed to reduce Lestat to this state where he was lost for words, barely able to string English together. But he felt nothing but hopeless affection. "Move," he breathed. "Take what you need. Do it hard."
Lestat obeyed. Fucked Louis wildly, even as his eyes welled up with bloody tears again. He bent Louis nearly in half, those big hands holding him in place so firmly that Louis could only take it; could only grab at the headboard, try to meet Lestat's thrusts as best as he could. Filled to the brim, every one of his senses nothing but Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.
Lestat, who was babbling again. Evidently the blissful period of speechlessness was over, and Lestat was back to his usual verbose self. Or some combination thereof, because it was a near incomprehensible blend of English and French. Spouting the usual shit—how beautiful Louis was like this, how hot and tight he was inside, how Lestat never wanted to leave, how he thought this might be the closest thing there was to heaven. All while fucking Louis straight through the mattress. Louis tried to tune it out.
"Lestat, shut it," he groaned. Legs kicking weakly at Lestat's back. "Don't need the running commentary."
"How can I help it!" Lestat half laughed, half sobbed. "How can I not tell you how wonderful you are? Louis, mon tresor, ma femme—" oh, Louis would eviscerate him for that one later, at some point in the distant future when Lestat's cock wasn't reducing his brain to mush. Lestat lowered himself onto his elbows, so that he was speaking directly into Louis' ear. "Ma vie." It was overwhelming, so overwhelming. Lestat above, around, inside him. "Je t'aime, je t'aime, plus que tout, Louis."
"I know," Louis whispered back. He felt like he was floating, weightless, Lestat's hands and cock taking him apart and making him anew with every thrust. "I know. I do, too."
Lestat gasped his name—a trembling, fractured sound. His hips stuttered, froze, and then Louis registered what he’d said.
He opened his eyes. Lestat looked flayed open, completely vulnerable. The way Louis felt. His breath caught in his throat, and he waited for Lestat to say something. To point it out. To beg Louis to say it again, in actual words. Louis wanted to. He wanted to, so badly, because it was true that he loved Lestat, more than anything. That one constant tenet, enduring, despite everything. The words wouldn’t come, buried beneath that deep, calcified fear. But Lestat needed to know.
Lestat didn’t ask, though. He just kissed Louis, lips bloody from his tears, something frantic about it. Then Louis was being flipped onto his stomach and Lestat was filling him up again, rutting into him artlessly. Louis groaned into the pillow, all thoughts wiped from his mind. Lestat was so deep like this. He turned his head to gasp for air, to drag Lestat down and kiss him again, and again.
Lestat kept breaking away to repeat “Louis, Louis,” in a broken voice, like a prayer. His hand clasped Louis’ and, overwhelmed, Louis brought it up to kiss his knuckles, mouth at his palm. Then down to his wrist. He could hear Lestat’s pulse, feel it, pounding right there beneath his skin. So strong and heady—Louis’ blood flowing through his veins. Louis as deep inside of him as he could be, as he should be, always. His fangs sank into Lestat’s skin, and his mouth flooded with Lestat’s blood, their blood.
Lestat stilled above him, then shuddered wildly, burying his face in Louis' neck. Louis heard his frenetic, rasping cries and felt the hot rush of him spilling deep inside and, through the blood, he felt the dazzling pleasure arcing through Lestat’s entire system. He writhed, clenching down, trying to draw it out.
"Lestat, please," he begged, and hissed when he felt Lestat pull out gently.
“Don’t worry, chéri,” Lestat breathed. “I’ll take care of you, I’ll take such good care of you.”
Then he was turned onto his back again and Lestat's clever tongue was—
"Fuck," Louis groaned. Scrabbled at the pillows, heard something rip. Lestat licked at his cock, almost kittenish, and then swallowed him down in one smooth movement. Guided Louis to fuck his throat, and then slipped three fingers into him all at once, pushing his come back in, and Louis was gone, just like that.
They managed to get cleaned up, somehow, and situated in Lestat's coffin, which he'd insisted on furnishing the flat with, despite Louis’ offers to install the same window tinting he had in Dubai. They fit together so neatly, without even having to talk. Lestat’s comforting weight halfway on top of him, their legs slotted together, and Lestat’s nose pressed into the hollow of Louis’ throat.
He was tracing meandering patterns on the front of Louis’ shirt, stopping periodically to clutch at the fabric. Louis could tell he was working himself up to say something, but didn’t press. He stroked Lestat’s hair absently and waited.
“Louis,” Lestat began, after a moment. His voice was very small.
“Hm?”
“If you didn’t…” Lestat turned his face further into Louis’ neck. His voice, when he spoke next, was so quiet Louis had to strain to hear it. “What you said earlier. Do you…remember?”
It was almost instinct for Louis to deny it. To deflect, as he’d been so accustomed to, whenever Lestat would say something adoring and he’d pretend not to have heard, while Lestat waited for a response. Then Lestat had stopped waiting, but Louis had still kept pretending. More to himself, than anything. “I remember,” he said.
Lestat inhaled, then nodded sharply. “If you didn’t really mean it…if it was just said in the heat of the moment, in the throes of passion…I would understand. We can forget it. I won’t be upset.” Immediately, he made to roll away.
Louis, still processing, reached out on instinct and dragged him back down. Lestat was stiff all over, holding himself carefully, maintaining distance between them. Louis took him by the back of the neck and guided his face back to his shoulder. Lestat went limp and pressed close again, so swiftly Louis couldn’t help but smile, although his own eyes were stinging. "Lestat, you can be a perfect idiot at times."
Lestat sniffed, whether from the crying or indignation, Louis couldn't tell. "Louis, I love you, but you really need to work on your pillow talk." He tried to pull away, but Louis kept him firmly in place.
"You're an idiot," Louis continued, louder, "if, after all that, you really think I don't…return your feelings.” He still couldn’t bring himself to say the actual words, but that didn’t seem to matter to Lestat. “That I haven't—haven't always—" His voice caught, and he realized he was crying too. There was so much more he wanted to say to Lestat, needed to say: thirty years, eighty years, a century's worth of confessions. “I meant it,” he managed to choke out instead. “Je t’aime. Je t’aime toujours.”
It still felt woefully inadequate, but Lestat exhaled shakily, then pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I’m very relieved to hear that, mon cher,” he said, a shadow of his usual swagger, despite the tears streaking his entire face. At this rate, Louis found himself thinking, Lestat might cry out all the blood in his body and have to go fetch another bag. “I was lying earlier, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” Louis’ hands slid up Lestat’s arms, gripping his shoulders. He couldn’t bear not to touch him.
“Yes. If you hadn’t meant it, I would have been upset. Very upset. Inconsolable, in fact.”
“Would’ve thrown a tantrum, huh?”
“Of unprecedented proportions,” Lestat said, so primly that Louis couldn’t help but laugh, and lean up to kiss him.
“Well, that’s ominous,” he said. “I don't think you could cry any harder than you're already doing right now, cher. You might sprain something.”
"So cruel, Louis! You say you l-love me, then follow with the sharpest barbs."
There was still something uncertain in his eyes. "I do, don’t I," Louis agreed, wishing he could wipe it away as easily as the tears.
Lestat sniffed again, but he was smiling. He lifted Louis' hand and kissed it. "I forgive you, of course," he said magnanimously. "You can say anything you want to me, anything at all, but I will always have the memory of your sweet words to soothe my injured soul—"
He kissed Louis again. Over and over again—not even trying to start something, just pecks all over his face until Louis was laughing, shoving ineffectually at him. "What are you, a dog!"
"Sorry," Lestat said, obviously insincere. He was smiling. Not his smarmy grin, but the smaller, close-mouthed one that Louis adored so much. "You just make me so happy, Louis! Incandescently happy! My Saint Louis, mon cher, mon tresor, mon cœur—" Each word punctuated by another kiss, even as he began to yawn more than he spoke. Louis snorted.
"Go to sleep, Les," he mumbled. "We'll talk more in the evening." A lot more. There was so much he still had to say. And there would be time to say it.
"In the evening? You are staying, then?” Lestat’s arms tightened. “I mean, for now, of course.”
"Yeah," Louis said, to that question, and to the one unspoken. "Yeah, I'm staying."
In the last, dim moments before the death-sleep claimed him, he thought he felt Daniel at the edge of his consciousness, trying to say something to him. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakably smug. Louis used the last of his energy to broadcast back a telepathic FUCK OFF, more a vague concept than any actual words, and then thought of nothing else. That, too, would be an issue for tomorrow.