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“I think we should get married,” Louis said, and Lestat immediately collapsed gracelessly onto the nearest chaise.
Emboldened by this response, Louis elaborated, "Well, maybe let’s not go that far, not yet. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I want to be with you again. Properly, this time. I want you to be mine; I want us to be official." He held back a wince on this last word, because it sounded so unbearably juvenile. But Lestat seemed especially attached to that particular terminology, so official it was. “What do you say?”
Lestat’s eyes were huge. He was slumped halfway off the chaise, holding himself very rigidly. Louis half expected him to burst into tears, and half expected him to sweep Louis into his arms and kiss him and then probably fuck him right there on the dressing room floor.
Instead, Lestat tilted his chin up and said, "No."
Louis must have misheard. “No?”
“No,” Lestat repeated, firmer this time. Like he was warming up to the idea.
Louis gaped at him. “You…do know what it is I’m asking, right?” he said, very slowly.
“But of course,” Lestat sniffed. “You want us to move past this oh-so-casual arrangement we have been cultivating for the past years, n’est-ce pas? You want us to date? Well, Louis, my answer is no.”
Louis hadn’t wanted them to date. He loathed that term, for one thing. For another, he’d rather thought they’d done exactly that, a century ago – and over the past two years, regardless of what they’d been calling it. He’d been thinking more along the lines of…well. “Any particular reason why?”
This actually seemed to stump Lestat. His mouth opened and closed a few times, before he settled on a haughty, "Perhaps my feelings have simply changed. You have dawdled for too long, and thus your window of opportunity has closed!"
Now that was a bald-faced lie if Louis had ever seen one.
Eighteen of the twenty-one songs on Lestat’s album were dedicated to Louis. (One of the other three was dedicated to Lestat’s mother, which Louis very deliberately chose not to unpack). Lestat had made him listen to them, biting his lip as he waited for his reaction. Louis, who had wanted to kiss Lestat somewhere around track 3 and had wanted to do way more than kiss around track 5, had kept his face carefully blank and said, finally, “Rather generic, but then again you know all pop music sounds the same to me, baby,” and they’d fucked before the comical look of outrage had even faded from Lestat’s face.
Louis attended most of Lestat’s shows, and he’d long stopped pretending that his work trips coincidentally aligned exactly with Lestat's tour schedule. They texted every night between visits, and called nearly as often. Louis had started carrying makeup remover in his bag, for god’s sake.
Not five days ago, Lestat had quite literally begged on his knees for Louis to make this – yes – official, to be his, unreservedly. He'd done a lot of other stuff on his knees, both before and after, but that part was what Louis remembered the most – because he'd been so close to caving, to giving Lestat exactly what he wanted.
He reminded Lestat of all this. Minus the caving part. “So it sounds to me," he concluded, "like the window of opportunity is still very much open.”
Lestat’s eyes had glazed over somewhere around when Louis had brought up the post-album studio sex. They sharpened now, taking on that defiant, bratty edge that had become so dreadfully familiar. He flicked his hand dismissively. “What can I say? Five days is a long time. A lot may change.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Louis said, almost impressed. “Fine, then.”
Lestat blinked. “What’s fine?”
“You wanna be a brat about this? Fine.” Louis got to his feet and collected his bag. “I’ll ask again when you’re in a better mood.”
Lestat’s eyes narrowed. He stood too, and stalked towards Louis. “So that’s it, then? You are just going to leave? See, Louis, this is just why I no longer want you as a paramour!”
Louis gritted his teeth, and did indeed leave without a backwards glance.
He regretted it nearly immediately. He stared out the taxi window, at the city lights streaking by, and realized that if he was going to be with Lestat again, completely, he’d have to get used to those mercurial moods of his. True, Lestat could piss him off like absolutely no one else, but that was nothing new, was it?
Later that night, he tried to text Lestat as had become customary, only to find that Lestat had blocked his number.
His first instinct was to swear. His second, more rational instinct, was to wait. Sure enough, a text came, just minutes to sunrise. Sleep well, Mr du Lac, with the knowledge that I regard you with nothing but the coolest ambivalence! Because Lestat did nothing halfway.
Sweet dreams, mon cher, Louis sent back, just to see what would happen.
no mon cher privileges for you!!!!! 😡
And then Lestat blocked him again.
Louis set the phone aside, climbed into his coffin, and smiled.
He was still blocked the next night. And the next. Lestat unblocked him each dawn just long enough to send his daily Good Morning text (sans accompanying gif), and that was it.
This was not at all upsetting, and Louis was only mildly perturbed, and that was just because in all honesty, he’d thought Lestat would have relented by now. Lestat had never been one to hesitate when going after something he wanted – Louis was intimately familiar with that fact. He’d imagined that he’d caught Lestat in some momentary fit of pique and that, when it passed, Lestat would be back to his usual exuberantly affectionate self.
And yet, when he snuck backstage at Lestat’s next concert (if it could even be called sneaking, when everyone on Lestat’s staff recognized him and gave him uncomfortably knowing looks), Lestat was still trying to feign aloofness. He was failing miserably, but an effort was being made.
“Are you here for a quickie, Louis?” he asked. “Because I must warn you, these pants are exceedingly tight, so I am not certain I’ll be able to get out of them in under fifteen minutes.”
“What? No,” Louis said, briefly distracted by the pants in question, which indeed looked like they ought to be cutting off circulation in important regions. “I’m here to ask if you’ve reconsidered my proposal.”
Lestat’s eyes widened, somewhat predictably, at the word proposal, and then he shook his head vigorously. “I have, and my answer remains the same.”
“Of course,” Louis said, completely exasperated. “So I should just leave, then?”
Lestat looked conflicted.
Louis moved closer, and draped his arms over Lestat’s shoulders. “Then again, there’s plenty more we can do. You say you don’t love me no more, you don’t want to be with me…” He went up on tiptoes, cursing Lestat’s six-inch heels, so he could brush his lips against Lestat’s ear and whisper, “That mean you don’t want to fuck me, either?”
He felt Lestat shiver against him, heard Lestat’s breaths go harsh and ragged. Lestat’s hands came to rest on his hips, practiced, and Louis grinned, flushed and triumphant and exhilarated.
And then Lestat said, “No. I would not want to give you the wrong idea.”
Louis pulled away. Stared at him. “The wrong idea? And what would that be?”
“That there are any residual feelings on my part, of course,” Lestat said, like Louis couldn’t see the tips of his fangs gleaming, extended past his lips. “I do not take just anyone to my bed, you know.”
“I see,” was all Louis could say in response. "I'll just…go, then."
He stepped back, and Lestat surreptitiously adjusted his pants, which did nothing to conceal how affected he was. But he was the picture of nonchalance as he said, “Do take care, Louis.”
Louis took his leave shortly thereafter, returned to his room, and proceeded to take care of himself very thoroughly indeed. Then he waited for Lestat’s usual text, and took the opportunity to tell him so, in no uncertain terms.
The typing icon appeared, and disappeared, over and over again, for several minutes. After a tellingly long silence, Lestat sent, And what am I meant to do with this information? and Louis couldn’t help but notice that he remained unblocked afterwards.
Backstage at the next show, there were two groupies hanging off Lestat, necks adorned with matching bite marks. Louis couldn’t decide which of the trio he wanted to murder most.
“Get them the fuck out,” he said.
Lestat raised a brow, and had the nerve to look nonplussed. One of the groupies cast Louis a baleful glare and said, “Hey, dude, you gotta wait your turn like everyone else.”
Louis narrowed his eyes, and within five seconds, both groupies’ expressions went blank and unthinking, and they were slinking out the door. Louis slammed it behind them for good measure.
Lestat no longer appeared languidly and distantly confused. He was breathing hard, leaning forward and eyeing Louis with clear hunger.
Louis had realized that Lestat got off on making him jealous, possessive, at around the same time Lestat realized that Louis did, in fact, go nearly out of his mind with rage when he entertained fans. So that had been a fun couple of weeks. But of course, once Lestat uncovered any advantage at all, he'd sink his fangs into it forever.
“Oh, Monsieur du Lac,” Lestat said breathily, “you seem to have chased off my dinner. However will you compensate me?”
“I’m sure you’ll live.” Louis stalked over, shoved him back down onto the futon. “How fucking petty are you, Lestat? Doing this just to get a rise outta me?”
“That was never my intention,” Lestat insisted, letting himself be pushed. He also let Louis climb onto his lap, straddling him. “You think much too highly of yourself, Louis.”
Louis laughed humorlessly. “Do I? Okay. Call them back in, then. You can eat them, fuck them, I don’t care. I’ll leave you to it, since you clearly don’t want me here.”
He made to get off, and Lestat’s hands were at his waist at once. Holding him in place. Louis tried to ignore how large they were, the warmth of them through the layers of clothing. Instead, he stared challengingly down at Lestat. “Do it,” he said, “or don’t.” Lestat’s hands tightened – Louis bit back a gasp – but he made no move otherwise. “Or have you finally changed your mind?”
Finally, Lestat scowled. “Are you in any position to be castigating me about indecisiveness, Louis?” he said, and Louis bristled. He could think of about five different ways to respond to that, and none of them would be conducive to this venture. He wrenched Lestat’s hands away, and headed for the door.
“I’ll see you at your next concert,” he said. “But if I'm so meaningless to you, Lestat, then some of your setlist might need adjusting.” He didn’t let himself look back.
On his way out, he spotted the two groupies getting into a taxi of their own, sporting twin looks of bafflement, and he smiled with grim satisfaction.
The only adjustment to the next setlist was an obviously hastily written acoustic piece, which featured such gripping lyricism as:
Chase me, want me, beg me all you like,
but it is a futile affair –
no matter how well those trousers flatter
your shapely derrière.
Suffice it to say that Louis was not in the best of moods by the time he slammed into Lestat’s dressing room and instantly choked on the overpoweringly melon-scented air. He coughed, and only then noticed that Daniel was there too, eyeing Lestat’s vape with what Louis felt was an appropriate level of disgust. “Oh, hey, Louis,” he said. “We were wondering when you’d show up. Blondie here was getting pretty antsy.”
“I was not!” Lestat took an aggrieved puff.
Louis ignored this, and turned instead to Daniel. "What are you doing here? Another interview? Last one only just wrapped up, didn’t it?"
Daniel scoffed. "If only. Lestat wanted someone to listen to him cry about his love life. Off the record," he added conspiratorially.
"Not love!" Lestat interrupted. He set down the vape – finally – and squinted belligerently at Louis. "Me and Daniel are comparing experiences."
"Hey, leave me the fuck outta of this.”
"Since," Lestat continued, "you also engaged in flirtations with him. I was curious as to whether your techniques have improved in the years since."
Louis was nearly too bemused to argue. "Yeah, I flirted with him. I flirted with half the men in San Francisco, and then I ate them. Nothing more than what you do with those groupies of yours," he couldn't help but add spitefully.
“Firstly, they are not groupies. They are rapt connoisseurs of my musique, and more importantly, Louis –” Lestat paused to take another pull, eliciting an exaggerated gag from Daniel – “is that what you are planning on doing with me? Flirt with me, ply me with pretty words and pretty gifts and then devour and discard me, drained and empty and lifeless, with nothing but the memory of your fangs in me?”
“Ok, gross,” Daniel cut in, standing, “and that’s my cue to head out. You’re starting to get your metaphors tangled, which is never a good sign. See you around, Louis. And you –” this was directed at Lestat – “let’s never do this again, yeah?”
“Seriously, Lestat?” Louis said, as soon as the door had shut behind him. “You brought Daniel here to complain about – about us, when you refuse to talk to me about it?”
"You think you have a monopoly on Daniel’s time, just because he was your therapist first?" Lestat reached for the vape again, and Louis snatched it up quickly. He briefly considered setting the thing on fire, but he wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t explode.
"He wasn't my therapist, Lestat, we’ve been over this." Louis thought back to what Lestat had said. “And what was all that shit about me leaving you drained and lifeless?”
Lestat didn’t answer, at first. Then he tossed his hair and said cooly, “Can you blame me for thinking thus? When nearly every one of our encounters has invariably ended with you bedding me and then fleeing before I can even catch my breath? You know, there is a term for it, I have heard – you fuck and chuck me, Louis.”
Louis was so thrown by this new and horrifying turn of phrase that it took him a moment to realize, with a twinge of guilt, that Lestat wasn’t entirely wrong.
Yes, when they met in person, they ended up fucking more often than not. But it wasn’t all they did, far from it. And yes, Louis usually refrained from spending the day afterwards. But that was only because he was so busy, and Lestat was too. And perhaps it was because he knew that if he let Lestat fuck him, and then spent hours curled safe in his arms, and then woke up to Lestat’s sleep-soft face inches from his own, he wouldn’t be able to refrain from –
“Lestat,” Louis said, intently, “you know it’s different with you, right?” He worried at the hem of his shirt. It was one thing to say these things to Daniel, who’d at worst mock him gently and call him a sap. But actually being face-to-face with Lestat, the entirety of him, watching Louis with something guarded yet so hopeful in his expression – “It’s always been different. There’s no one else who’s made me feel the way you do.”
He saw Lestat swallow. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach out and Louis, breath caught in his throat, waited for him to do just that.
Instead: “Might I ask, what are your thoughts on the new song?”
“I can see why Pitchfork gave you a 4.2,” Louis said mercilessly – he didn’t see, actually, but he knew it was a sore spot for Lestat. “I’m leaving, then,” he added, after a few minutes of listening to Lestat gasp theatrically and call Louis cruel and heartless and a most ungrateful muse.
“Going to meet Daniel, are you?” Lestat sniped. “Going to spill the tea, as I hear you two have spent so much time doing together?”
Louis had no idea what this meant, so he just said, “Jealousy doesn’t really suit you, Les, but if you feel that strongly – why don’t you write another song about it?”
“Maybe I will,” Lestat threatened. “You can go and chat with the fledgling about that, too.”
“I will not,” Louis snapped, and shut the door with more force than was necessary.
“ – and his grasp of slang is just…atrocious.” Louis paused, mid rant, to take a long, angry gulp of blood. “Seriously. What kind of shit has he been reading online?”
Daniel, seated across the small table, regarded him with no small amount of pity. “Well, last month it was Myspace, but best I can tell, he’s moved on to Tumblr now. He sorta reminds me of my granddaughter, now I think about it. Who is fourteen.”
“Ugh.”
“Don’t ugh me, Louis, you made this bed so now you gotta lie in it. This is the guy you’re embarrassingly besotted with.”
“Ugh,” Louis repeated, despairing. “I am, aren’t I.”
“You are, I’m afraid.” Daniel patted his hand. “My deepest condolences.”
“And to hear him tell it,” Louis muttered darkly, “he is completely over me.”
This got him a loud cackle. "As someone whose actual job it was to listen to him yap daily for the better part of three months," Daniel said, "trust me when I say he is not over you."
"I know that," Louis snapped.
"Not over you might be an understatement," Daniel mused. "Pathetically hung up on might be more accurate."
"I know that too," Louis said, although hearing it from Daniel was rather heartening. He fought back a smile. It wasn't that he'd doubted it, but… "What I don't know is why he's being so damn stubborn about this. He knows I love him back."
Daniel’s gaze turned shrewd. "Have you told him that?"
Louis bristled – Daniel was clearly slipping back into investigative journalism mode, which never boded well. "He knows."
“Does he?”
“Of course he does,” Louis said, with slightly less assuredness. Lestat had to know. Louis may not have said the actual words, but he’d said nearly everything else up to that point. Lestat might be a bit of an idiot at times, but he’d have to be deliberately obtuse to miss it.
“Well,” Daniel said, shrugging and sipping at his own glass with a wince – Louis knew he vastly preferred live feeding, but it just hadn’t seemed fitting to have this conversation with a cooling corpse in the background. “Maybe he just wants to be reminded of the fact.”
Louis narrowed his eyes. “What did he say to you?”
“Off the record, Louis,” Daniel reminded him. Louis scowled. “I will say this, though. Perhaps he wants to be…” Daniel pursed his lips, searching for the word, eventually settling on, “courted.”
“Courted?” Louis said in disbelief. “Does he know this is the twenty-first century, and not the eighteenth?”
“If you’ve forgotten, your boyfriend’s the biggest fucking drama queen I’ve ever met, and I was a journalist in San Francisco. Also, he’s been binging those trashy regency dramas so now he’s getting all kinds of ideas.”
“Of course he has.”
“Anyways. Forget about Lestat for a sec.” Daniel set the glass aside. “All offense, Louis, but this fridgey blood is revolting. Can we go do some actual hunting, or will that offend your vampiric sensibilities?”
Louis was feeling cross enough to relent. He led Daniel to, and watched him eat, a stray groupie, which did improve his mood significantly. And then he started to plan.
So Lestat wanted to be wined and dined, was that it? Or whatever the vampiric equivalent was? That was – fine. More than fine, even. In fact, Louis was looking forward to it.
When they’d first met, it had been Lestat undertaking the majority of the seduction efforts, mainly due to the fact that Louis hadn’t even been aware a seduction had been underway at all. But that didn’t mean he was a stranger to the process himself – he’d done just fine before Lestat, after all, and in all those years after him.
It was only that Lestat had been so – Lestat. Sweeping in and leaving Louis breathless, off-balance, in a way no one else could hope to ever imitate. But it had been over a century since then, and naturally, things were different.
So the next time he met Lestat, after his Toronto show, it was with a bouquet of roses in hand. Cliche, yes, but clearly Lestat needed all this spelled out for him as directly as possible.
Sure enough, Lestat scoffed when he saw it. "Roses, Louis? How very uninspired." It was not lost on Louis how carefully he took the bouquet. Something hesitant about the gesture, almost apprehensive.
That wouldn’t do. “Sometimes it’s best to keep things simple,” Louis said. “Don’t you think?” He reached out, and traced a finger delicately over the curve of one petal. Lestat’s eyes followed the movement closely. “And they convey my feelings quite concisely, I feel.”
“Do they?” Lestat murmured. “Had I imagined receiving an arrangement from you – which I haven’t – I’d have expected it to consist of…iberis. Yellow carnations, butterfly weed. Oh, maybe…”
“Well, I was considering exactly that,” Louis said blandly. “But the florist told me the colours would clash hideously, so roses it was.”
Lestat’s mouth twitched. Good. “I admire your forethought, Louis, but I fear such efforts are completely wasted on me,” he said, and then hollered for a harried PA to fetch him a vase of water.
The Montreal stop two weeks later found Louis waiting backstage, again, with more flowers – a proper bouquet this time. “You looked gorgeous tonight,” he told Lestat. It wasn’t even an exaggeration. Lestat always looked gorgeous, even when he was wearing what could only charitably be called a shirt, and doing things to his hair that made Louis wince. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” Also not an exaggeration. Lestat was a born performer. Seeing him there on stage made Louis commiserate somewhat with the obsessive groupies, although he still wanted nothing more than to filet them.
Lestat looked briefly stunned, but recovered quickly. “Of course you couldn’t.” He tossed his hair. “I’m effervescent. Everyone thinks so. Those eminent journalists of le Magazine de Vogue were so taken by my beauty, you know, that they published an entire piece on my skincare and makeup routine. Impossible to replicate, of course, but I salute anyone who attempts the feat.”
Louis had read the piece, which basically amounted to Lestat tossing out a series of increasingly bullshit tips, likely to reduce anyone not in possession of regenerative vampiric skin to a crisp.
The accompanying pictorial, though, had been quite memorable.
“The makeup is good,” he lied neatly, “but you’re always gorgeous to me. Even with nothing on.” He lowered his voice. “Especially then.”
Even after Lestat flew into a fit of indignation and hastily shooed him out, it was the memory of the vivid flush that had overtaken his face which kept Louis smiling to himself throughout the entire jet ride back.
As Lestat flitted from city to city, Louis followed. The bouquets continued, accompanied by an assortment of jewelry, luxury bags and shoes, perfumes, vintage records, and several electronics for Lestat to amuse himself with. Lengthy visits to whatever local museums and galleries caught their interest. Not that different from what they’d been doing before, really, except that Louis’ chequebook saw significantly more use, and he made a much more deliberate effort to flirt with Lestat. Who, for his part, made an effort to maintain an air of complete insouciance which was commendable, if not entirely successful.
In Boston, he treated Lestat to a moonlit dinner in the Public Garden, which entailed him psychically removing all but a few stragglers for Lestat to hunt. Blood was smeared all over his face by the end of it. Louis tutted, and dabbed at it with his handkerchief. “Still such a messy eater. Best not let the paparazzi catch you like this.”
“It will make no difference,” Lestat assured him. Freshly fed, warm and thrumming with blood under Louis’ fingers. “They will simply commend my commitment to the aesthetic.” Louis put away the handkerchief, and thumbed away the last traces of blood, right at the edges of Lestat’s mouth. He licked it off then, letting his lips curl around his own finger, very aware of how Lestat’s eyes went dark and hungry at the sight.
In London, he gifted Lestat an obscenely expensive Cartier bracelet. He'd considered getting something simple and understated, then he'd considered everything he knew about Lestat, and opted instead for the shiniest, most ostentatious thing 200k could buy.
Lestat sniffed exaggeratedly. "Now you think you can buy my affections with shiny trinkets, Louis?” He was holding the bracelet up, turning it this way and that to admire the way the diamonds sparkled. “I’m not that kind of vampire.”
Louis couldn't help but notice that Lestat wore the bracelet for his concert that very same night. It would’ve been difficult to miss; every time Lestat flung his arms as he pranced around on stage, it caught the multitude of stage lights from every angle and gleamed like the heart of a star.
It was still very much not to Louis’ taste, but he couldn’t deny that some dark, possessive part of him appreciated the effect, blinding as it was. That Lestat was so obviously broadcasting his gift, the evidence that he was Louis’, to his millions of adoring fans. He wondered idly if Cartier made collars.
Consequently, Daniel forwarded him the link to a tabloid article the very next day:
ROCK STAR OR NEPO BOYFRIEND? The Vampire Lestat spotted with new multimillionaire beau – here’s all we know about the torrid affair
Not all vampires suck blood – clearly, this one has been sucking – Which was about as far as Louis got before clicking vehemently out of the tab.
“A little more subtlety, maybe?” Daniel suggested. “Ease up on the bling?”
Louis considered it. How Lestat’s entire face lit up at each of Louis' gifts – when he saw Louis at all, in fact. How he’d admitted, uncharacteristically shyly, that Louis was the first person to bring him flowers (the ones from the audience didn’t count, apparently). “No. I don’t think so.”
He did, however, take every measure to clear the Rembrandt House completely of cameras, as well as the usual tourists, before they arrived. This destination turned out to be a particularly good choice – Louis liked the art himself, of course, but Lestat seemed utterly enthralled. He spoke about it nonstop afterwards, breathless and alight in a way Louis remembered from their century-ago excursions to operas, ballets, plays.
“I do apologize,” he said eventually, as they drifted to a stop. The moonlight glinted off the canal behind him, and his hair was limned with silver. He laughed, somewhat sheepishly. “I must be boring you, with all this discussion.”
“You’re not. I always like listening to you talk.” It came out softer, more confessional than Louis had intended, and Lestat ducked his head. “I take it you enjoyed yourself then?”
“I did,” Lestat said, unnecessarily. “I always did like galleries.”
“I know. I remembered.”
“And there seems to be much I’ve missed out on in…well. While I was on my long sabbatical in the Garden District.” He gave Louis a quick sidelong glance.
“You’ve been doing a good job catching up so far,” Louis said. In some ways, it seemed like Lestat was even more taken with modern life than Louis himself was. It was incredibly endearing, even the terribly mangled slang. “And now, you’ve only got time.”
“I do, don’t I,” Lestat murmured. "There is much I desire to see, to experience. Many places I want to travel to." He turned, so they were face to face, and how had Louis not realized how closely they were standing? The warmth, the solidity of him, drawing Louis inescapably closer. “Much I would like to revisit.”
Louis swallowed, and watched Lestat’s gaze drop to his throat. “You can.” His voice sounded breathless, uneven. “And I’d like to be there with you, while you do.”
He was only partially surprised to find himself being kissed, the very next moment. Lestat’s huge hands on his neck, thumbs stroking his jaw, holding him in place as Lestat licked into his mouth deeply, with overwhelming focus.
It was nowhere near their first kiss, nor even their thousandth, but something about this one felt new, delicate – sent joy, pure and simple, fizzing in Louis' blood, as he wrapped his arms around Lestat’s neck and pressed as close as he could.
Time seemed to slow to a syrupy crawl, and it could’ve been hours before they broke apart. Lestat tipped their foreheads together, breathing raggedly, and Louis took his hand and pressed it over his fluttering heart. Let him feel the rhythm of it – he didn’t have to listen to know that it matched Lestat’s own exactly.
“This,” Lestat breathed, “still changes nothing.” But he was smiling, giddy and irrepressible. Louis imagined he was in no better state himself.
“I expected nothing else,” he said, and couldn’t help but kiss Lestat’s cheek, just one more. “I’ll see you at your concert, cher.”
Lestat caught him by the waist before he could retreat completely, and kissed him again. “Do bring Tiffany next time,” he said, and Louis laughed against his mouth, and pushed him away.
Lestat made the usual fuss at the end of his Vegas show about subsequently heading out with the band and any particularly adventurous groupies for a chaotic night of debauchery, and the crowd ate it all up. But this was clearly all talk, because Louis had only had to wait in his hotel room for about ten minutes before being graced with the presence of Monsieur le Rockstar himself.
When he walked in and saw Louis there, reclined on the bed, Lestat beamed – then quickly tried to fix it into a scowl, with little success. “I warned the hotel staff not to let you in here!”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Haven't you seen the news? They already all know me as your sugar daddy, so they sent me straight up.”
Lestat looked at him closely. “Is that what you are?”
“Is that all you want me to be?” Louis was mostly joking, but his hand clenched in the comforter. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Lestat said yes.
Instead of answering, Lestat set down his guitar case, and shrugged off his jacket. Away from the glaring stage lights and shrieking crowds, he looked smaller. Somewhat drawn and tired under the countless layers of makeup, which made sense for a vampire who’d spent the last three hours flouncing ceaselessly and screaming into a mic. It made Louis want to tuck them both into a coffin and just hold him till sunset. “I do appreciate the presents,” Lestat said. “The main advantage to being courted by a millionaire, non?”
Louis scoffed, then said as meaningfully as he could, "I've got a different kind of gift for you tonight."
Lestat fixed him with what was presumably meant to be a stern look. "I have already said it, Louis, that I will not bed you, no matter how prettily you beg for it – ah, do not laugh! I am quite steadfast in my principles."
"You sure about that?"
"Immensely."
Louis leaned back, slowly, keeping his eyes on Lestat's the entire time, and tugged the waistband of his pants down. Just enough to show Lestat a glimpse of what he was wearing underneath. Lestat inhaled sharply.
"You make a…a valiant effort,” he said roughly, “but I won’t succumb to your cunning and beguiling wiles." His eyes had gone very, very dark, and Louis shivered at what he saw in them.
“So I put all this on for nothing?” Louis straightened, pulled his pants back up. “Should I go out and find someone else who’ll appreciate them better than you?”
It was very obviously an empty threat, but Lestat’s eyes went even darker, livid, and not ten minutes later, Louis was bent over the edge of the bed, the panties tugged down to his knees. "What was that about my cunning and beguiling wiles, Lestat?" he panted out, with some difficulty. He could barely think long enough to string together an entire sentence when Lestat did – that. “How you’d never succumb?”
Lestat growled at him. Given the fact that he was currently eating Louis out like his life depended on it, the effect was devastating – Louis moaned, embarrassingly loudly, and flung his arm out blindly in search of something to hold onto. Something breakable-sounding went crashing from the nightstand to the floor. “Tu es un…une…une succubus!” Lestat rasped out. “You know the power you hold over me, and you wield it with impunity –”
“Just shut up and fuck me already,” Louis snarled, and Lestat did. Hard, punishing snaps of his hips, hands sweeping roughly over Louis’ skin. Lingering on his throat, his chest, holding him open so Lestat could see where he had Louis stretched tight around his cock. Clearly he’d been just as pent up as Louis, because now he seemed to be reduced to a near animalistic state – panting harshly into Louis’ neck, dragging his teeth over the skin there. Louis squirmed, pushing back into him; it hadn’t even been two months since they’d last fucked, but it was all so overwhelming.
“J’ai tellement besoin de toi,” Lestat rasped. His hand slid from Louis’ chest, down to his stomach, pressing down – feeling himself, and Louis cried out, head lolling back onto Lestat’s shoulder. Lestat latched onto his neck, biting a frantic series of kisses. His fangs so close to breaking the skin, but not enough. “Your skin, your scent, si parfait – oh, Louis, I missed having you like this.”
“And whose fucking fault was that?” Louis managed to bite out. “You could’ve been having this all the time, any time, if you’d just – ah – fuck, fuck me harder –”
Afterwards, Louis half expected – dreaded – Lestat to be so committed to the aesthetic that he’d kick him out instantly. But Lestat pulled him onto the bed, gently, and kept him right there. He wrapped himself securely around Louis like a large blond octopus, and rested his head on Louis’ chest. Right over his heart.
“Gimme a bit of space, baby,” Louis said, even as he stroked through Lestat’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hm,” Lestat said, and tightened his grip.
“Unless you want me to?” Louis couldn’t resist adding.
“Hm.”
Louis looked down. From this angle, all he could see was the top of Lestat’s head. “You’re being real clingy for someone who doesn’t wanna get serious. Does this mean you’ve finally changed your mind?”
He wanted Lestat to say yes. He almost shocked himself with how badly he wanted it.
It was fun enough, true, playing this game when they both knew there was only one way it was going to end. But right now, in Lestat’s arms, he just wanted –
“I,” Lestat said, “have not.”
Louis had been expecting it. He’d known it wouldn’t be that easy. But it still felt like a punch to the gut. He sat up, pushing Lestat off him, steeling his heart against the protesting whine that followed. “No? Not even after what we just did? Fuck, Lestat, how long you gonna make me grovel?”
He’d meant for it to sound light, teasing. But he must’ve let too much of the hurt slip through, because Lestat pushed himself up onto his elbows. “It’s not about making you grovel,” he said, something in his voice that Louis couldn’t place.
“Then what is it?” He couldn’t meet Lestat’s eyes. “Because I want you, and I know you want me, so why are you still being such a brat about this?”
“It is kind of my entire brand,” Lestat said airily. Infuriating. “The Brat Prince. Despite what some of those online plebeians may cry about plagiarism and whatnot, that title has in fact been ascribed to me since the late 1700s, as I told Monsieur Molloy when he too questioned the veracity of my –”
Louis wanted to slap him. He settled for tugging his hair. “Lestat. Take this seriously.”
“I always do.”
“You haven’t, not for the last two months!”
All traces of humor left Lestat’s face, very quickly. “Do recall, Louis," he said lowly, "at the start of all this, how you stated that this arrangement between us would be nothing serious – am I incorrect?” Louis flinched. He had said that, when they’d only just reunited and everything between them had felt too fresh and raw and breakable, but it had been years since. Surely Lestat knew, by now, that – “Let us be honest, mon cher. Has it ever been serious to you, even before? Even once?”
Louis jerked back. Ears ringing. Lestat might as well have slapped him. “Is that,” he whispered, “what you really think?”
Lestat stared up at him, silent. His jaw was still set defiantly, but eyes were wide and almost frightened. Louis could barely think past the ache in his chest.
“Is that what you thought of me? The entire time?” He stumbled off the bed, yanked on his clothes as quickly as possible, suddenly unable to stand being so exposed. He’d thought he was being…good. Loving. A sudden recollection of that phantom in Paris: show me the only way you know how to love. Was that actually how Lestat saw him, even now?
“Louis, wait,” Lestat said. Louis stopped, but didn’t turn back to look at him. “I should not have said that. I only…” There was a sigh, a hitched breath. Louis waited. When several moments had passed, and there was nothing forthcoming, he swallowed hard several times and left the room.
This time around, it was Louis who shoved his phone into a drawer so he could ignore Lestat for the subsequent few days. Lestat had another concert scheduled right there in Vegas. Louis spent the entire three nights leading up to it resolving not to attend. And on the fourth, he was completely unsurprised to find himself at the concert anyways, and, afterwards, heading down the now-familiar path to the dressing room to wait.
When Lestat arrived, Louis first noticed his horrendous purple pantsuit, which made him resemble nothing so much as a large sparkly grape. Then he noticed how drawn Lestat seemed, and that he was followed not by the usual assortment of fawning groupies, but by Christine, who was berating him for – as far as Louis could tell – skipping four consecutive interviews with no prior notice. Lestat was in the middle of rolling his eyes dramatically when he spotted Louis and froze.
Christine did not. “Oh, thank fuck, you’re here,” she said, and shoved him right in. She fixed Louis with a frankly terrifying glare. “I am leaving to kick something, because if I spend any longer here, it’ll be his head. Until I’m back, you deal with him. You have ten minutes to make him serviceable.” And then she strode off in a whirl of perfume and clacking high heels.
“Why do you keep pissing her off?” Louis couldn’t help but ask. “One day she’ll actually figure out a way to kill you.”
“What can I say? I simply dislike being told what to do, or when to do it,” Lestat said, reflexively. Then, quieter, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t,” Louis admitted. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.”
Lestat’s mouth twisted, and he avoided Louis’ eyes. “I…what I said, that night…”
“Don’t,” Louis said quickly. “You don’t need to say anything. I know I was never the best…partner.”
“That’s not true, you were absolutely perfect,” Lestat blurted, and blinked.
Louis shot him a quelling look, and continued, “I haven’t been the best at showing you how I feel. So I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But I am serious about you, Lestat.”
Lestat still looked quietly miserable. Clearly disbelieving. Louis needed to convince him, though he had no idea how. Then he took a closer look, and frowned. He hadn’t really noticed it before, but this close, Lestat really did look terrible – eyes shadowed, skin pale and waxy in a way even the makeup couldn’t hide, and which Louis recognized very well. “You haven't been eating well lately.”
Lestat shifted. “I’ve been eating sufficiently.”
"Oh, I’m sure. Come on." He took Lestat by the hand.
"Where are we going?" Lestat asked, letting himself be tugged down the corridor, past the blatantly gossipping crew, and out into the street.
"To get some blood in you before you get all shriveled up and make things infinitely harder for your poor makeup artists." Louis unlocked his car, and bundled Lestat into the passenger’s seat.
"I appreciate your concern, but they have dealt with much worse conditions. I think they thrive on the challenge, in fact.” Lestat slumped against the window, but Louis could feel his eyes on the side of his head as he drove, heading to his own hotel. “And Christine won't be happy. If I remember correctly, I have an interview scheduled in, ah…two minutes ago?"
"I'll handle Christine." As if on cue, Lestat’s phone started ringing, and then Louis’, although he was reasonably sure he’d never given her his number. Fucking lawyers. He switched them both off without looking.
"You really don't have to do this," Lestat tried to insist later, as Louis fed him and cleaned the makeup and blood off his face and, with some resignation, offered him his own coffin because it was much too late for Lestat to be traipsing halfway across the city. He was quietly thrilled when Lestat accepted. He made to close the lid, but Lestat stopped him. "I'm sorry I am not better company at the moment," he said quietly. “Many concerts in a row, tu sais? I promise I will provide more engaging conversation when…when I…”
"I like you just fine right now."
“Do you?”
“I always do.” Which was entirely too much vulnerability, so Louis added, “Even when you’re annoying the fuck outta me.”
Lestat looked like he had much to say to this, but his eyes closed and he was asleep nearly immediately after.
He thanked Louis for the blood the next night, and for not letting him sleep in his makeup, and for the coffin, and for assuaging Christine’s ire down from ‘actively homicidal’ to her baseline level of irritation. And then he left, and Louis did too, and things went back to what was apparently normal for them now, which was fine. They had eternity – Louis could wait.
It turned out that Louis was not, in fact, a very patient man.
“Yeah, any idiot who’s read my book could’ve told you that much,” was Daniel’s response. “And this plan of yours is petty as hell. Like, sinking to his level type of petty. Or, even worse – mine.”
Louis shrugged. “Perhaps that’s precisely the approach I need to take. As you can see, Daniel, the courting hasn’t been a terribly effective strategy.”
“Well, this strategy is gonna end in a whole lot of tears and drama and bloodshed,” Daniel warned. “On both your parts. Well, mostly on Lestat’s part, let’s be real, but my point still stands.”
“It’s Lestat – when does it not?” Louis said wryly, and picked up his phone to make some arrangements.
It was a laughably simple manner for Louis to clear out the restaurant, and to arrange a candlelit table near a window overlooking a stunning vista of New Orleans. Lestat looked briefly delighted, then scoffed affectedly. "What is all this now, Louis? You think un dîner gastronomique is what will get me onto your arm?"
Louis poured him a glass of blood. "Not at all," he said placidly. "I just wanted the last time to be nice for you."
"The last time?" Lestat echoed.
"Yeah." Louis adjusted the table settings. Quite useless, of course, but he thought Lestat might appreciate the effect. "I think you've made your point clear enough by now, Lestat. I tried to tell myself otherwise, but I just can’t keep pretending – your position on this is very plain to see. So if you really don't want to be with me anymore, I won't try to change your mind. I'll just let you be from now on."
Lestat’s hand twitched, knocking the dessert fork out of place. "Uh," he said.
Louis fixed it, and smiled sweetly at him. "That is what you wanted, right?"
Lestat had taken on a distinctly hunted look. But, slowly, he nodded.
Louis’ smile widened. “Drink your blood,” he urged. “You’ve got a big concert coming up.”
To Lestat's credit, he held out for a full two nights.
On the third, Louis awoke just after sunset to a frantic banging on the front door of his Audubon house. He took a moment to tamp down the no-doubt crazed smile he was sporting, then went to open it.
Lestat was on the other side, as expected. He was in that same awful purple pantsuit, now unbearably creased. His countless layers of eye makeup were smudged beyond hope, lending him the look of a demented raccoon. The state of his hair suggested he’d flown here, and perhaps lost a battle with a bird enroute.
In short, he looked a complete mess. Louis still wanted to fuck him six ways till Sunday. Not for the first time, he reflected on his life choices with some consternation.
"Louis," Lestat rasped.
"Hello, Lestat. Shouldn’t you be preparing for a concert right about now?"
"Pas important!” Lestat snarled. “You…you…”
"Me…?"
Lestat’s mouth worked soundlessly, while he seemed to swell up from the sheer force of his outrage. "Two days! Two nights! Not a single word from you!"
He paused to catch his breath, and Louis wondered, with some relief, at the fact that after nearly three full months of unceasing stubbornness from Lestat, this was what got him to cave. And it was a good thing he caved when he did, because a few more hours and Louis likely would’ve been the one banging down his door to scream at him, and Lestat would never let him live it down.
He said none of this, of course. “Well, I didn’t want to bother you, when you must be ever so busy.”
Lestat's throat worked. Then, to Louis' mingled horror and exasperation, his eyes welled up with tears. "So that is it? You are really going to give up on me? You are never going to talk to me again?"
Indignation, mounting steadily, finally won the battle against the deeply ingrained urge to comfort him. "Of course not. But why shouldn’t I – ain't that exactly what you've been asking for, these past three months!"
"You weren't supposed to actually do it!" Lestat wailed. Louis yanked him inside, because he recognized all the telltale signs of Lestat gearing up for a tantrum, and he’d rather not air their business to everyone within a half-mile vicinity.
"Well, Lestat," he said, closing the door behind him, and leaning against it, arms folded. "You know my patience isn't infinite."
Lestat balked, then deflated entirely. "Je sais," he whispered. "I knew you'd get fed up of me eventually, like always. I'm sorry. Even I don't know why I dragged it on for so long. I just wanted to…"
All of Louis' irritation seemed to ebb away at once, leaving something warm and aching in its wake. He guided Lestat over to the sofa, and sat next to him. "Oh, baby," he murmured. "I'm not fed up of you. I never will be."
"I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Lestat said. His voice broke when he added, "I know that I'm a lot."
"You are," Louis agreed. He brushed Lestat’s hair out of his face. "But I want you anyway."
“You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re doing fine without me – you always did.”
After everything, how could Lestat still think this? “I’m really not.”
“You are!” Lestat lurched away abruptly, rising unsteadily to his feet. “You are much better off without me, Louis. We both know that. You may think you want me now, but you will soon realize that you don’t, and when you leave me again…” His face crumpled. “It will kill me, I think.”
Louis was standing, nearly without conscious thought. He took Lestat’s hands. Lestat tried to wrench them away, but Louis didn’t let him. Lestat was full-on sobbing now, but Louis was the one who felt breathless, frenetic. Lestat opened his mouth, but he cut in: “How could I do that? Lestat, you know I adore you.” Lestat’s mouth shut with a satisfying click.
Once, Louis would have recoiled viciously at the thought of telling Lestat anything like this. Not because it wasn’t true, but because he felt that Lestat already possessed nearly every part of him, so completely. How could Louis let him have this too? He’d told himself Lestat had to have known – but that was always the mistake, wasn’t it? Even now.
“Do you want to know why I asked you to be with me again?” Lestat averted his gaze. Louis grasped his jaw, turned him back to face him. “You remember that vampire in the front row of your show, right before? The one who tried to stake you?”
“Ah, yes. He never would have succeeded. A most ineffective method of murder, and you dispatched him most efficiently – as you have done with all the others.”
“Yes, but – I thought then, what if it isn’t always that simple? What if one day they’re too strong, or I’m not fast enough, or countless other reasons, and you’re just gone? I pictured it then, Lestat, spending the rest of eternity without you, the way I thought I would when I killed you the first time. I could hardly bear it then – I nearly went mad with grief.” He bit his lip. He’d never told Lestat this. He’d barely admitted it to Daniel. Claudia had probably been the only person to know the full extent of it. “But to lose you again, now – it would destroy me.”
“Louis,” Lestat whispered. “Chéri.” His hands clutched Louis’ shirt like a lifeline.
“So I’ll ask you again,” Louis said, his voice catching on the words. “Will you be mine? Because I’m yours, already, always. Whatever you wanna do with that, it’s the truth.”
Lestat didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. Instead, he flung his arms around Louis, and pressed his face into the crook of his neck. "I was lying," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I do still want you."
Louis, near tears himself, resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I know."
“Do you?” Lestat asked, more intently. “You told me once, you weren’t sure I’d want to see you. I will always want that, Louis. Nothing you do can ever make me want you any less, and you should never think that it could. The thought should never even cross your mind.”
Which was very sweet, but Louis couldn’t help but point out: “That is the complete opposite of what you’ve been saying lately.”
Lestat had the decency to look chagrined. “Mon amour, please do not tease me further – do you have any idea how excruciating it’s been to pretend I don’t want you?” It wasn’t like he’d been doing a particularly good job of it, Louis didn’t say. “I was in agonies. When you courted me so sweetly, and lavished me with delectable attention, and I saw your wide, pleading eyes, and all I wanted to do was –” Louis kissed him before he could finish that sentence.
“If you wanted my attention,” he said, “if you wanted to be courted, you just had to ask for it. No need for these games. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Lestat was staring at him with something close to astonishment. He looked suddenly, achingly vulnerable. “You mean it?”
“Of course.”
“Are you – Louis, you have to be sure.”
This wasn’t even Lestat’s usual brattiness anymore, Louis realized – he really still imagined he had something to worry about. Well. There’d be time enough to convince him, but as for a first step…Louis had planned on showing this to him in approximately never, but he’d already come this far, so –
He retrieved the small card from his breast pocket, and held it for Lestat to examine. Lestat’s brows creased in confusion at first, and then went smooth and shocked with recognition. “Louis,” he whispered. “You…kept it? All this time?”
“Yeah. Even when I tried to hate you.” Louis closed his hand over Lestat’s, stilling his trembling fingers. “It’s a stupid fucking business card. But. It’s you.”
“Oh, Louis,” Lestat breathed again. “My name, always cradling your heart. Does that mean that…do you…" He swallowed, then said, voice pitched so low Louis could barely hear it: "Do you love me now?"
“Do you still have to ask?”
“Louis! Je t'en supplie!”
Louis laughed, sheer happiness, and kissed Lestat again before he could burst into affronted tears. Then, it was the easiest thing in the world to say, “I do.”
“I cannot fucking believe it.” Daniel sounded reluctantly impressed. “Pettiness worked.”
“I told you it would,” Louis said, trying and failing not to sound smug as anything. The fact that he was currently very well-fucked and cradled in Lestat’s lap certainly didn’t help. “I know Lestat.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. In all senses. That was innuendo, in case you couldn’t pick it up over the brainwave network.”
Lestat fidgeted behind him. “Mon ange, why are you so quiet? Are you talking to Daniel? Put him on speaker,” he demanded. “I want to be part of the conversation.”
“I don’t think three-way telepathy is a thing, love,” Louis said, thoughtfully. It would’ve been interesting to try, but enduring hours of Daniel and Lestat sniping at each other was about the last thing he wanted to do at that moment.
Daniel said, “Is he with you right now? Is he complaining about you paying attention to me and not him? He is, isn’t he? God, please tell me you’ve both got your pants on at the very least.”
“Louis,” Lestat whined. “Do not ignore me, chéri! I beg you – do not deprive me of your sweet voice any longer. I cannot stand it. I am in agony, Louis, it is pure torture.”
“Oh my god, you’re going to give in, aren’t you,” Daniel said, sounding mildly horrified. “You are. I know I said Lestat’s got it bad, but you’ve got it worse.”
He really did. But then Lestat tucked his chin over his shoulder, and his voice dropped to that low, entreating register, and Louis couldn’t even pretend to be miffed about the fact. With a sigh, he obligingly fished out his phone, dialed Daniel, and put it on speaker.