Chapter Text
Louis stood on the balcony, watching the moonlight paint his fingers a gentle silver-blue. His tower rising from a single bony rib of the Palm Jumeirah, that archipelago which—if viewed from high above the city—would at first glance appear to be the glittering fossil of some long-dead animal. He puffed on his cigarette slowly, a habit he’d recently taken up again mostly because, some nights, he just really needed something to do with his hands.
Dubai was a dream of light beneath him. The blood of the kill pumping in him warm and thick and true. Though he was still mostly subsisting on donor blood for practical reasons, he’d taken to doing a proper hunt once a week in some halfhearted attempt at checking in with the truth of his nature. Tonight, he’d plucked his meal right from a boat in the marina. Taking them so swiftly and with such efficiency not a single mortal seemed to notice what he had done.
He stubbed what was left of his cigarette out and went inside, keeping the sliding door open to let the night air in. The penthouse was blissfully quiet, no bodily sounds intruding the space save for his breath and his heart. What remained of his staff he’d sent home for the weekend, more than content to spend a little time by himself without human thought trying to claw its way into his head. So high up in his tower the voices from down below couldn’t reach him. He might as well have been on a private island in the middle of the ocean. He might as well have been on the moon.
He swiped his phone from the coffee table and sprawled on the sectional sofa. Opened Instagram and immediately started in on a mindless scroll. Art and fashion and photography accounts whirring by on his screen with every flick of his thumb. Hardly noticing the names of the accounts or what was written in their captions let alone the content of their posts. Lingering just a hair too long on a post from Daniel Molloy about his latest late night reading of Interview with the Vampire at a gay bar in Midtown Manhattan. A reading which, as far as Louis could surmise, had served as the opening act for a vampire-themed drag show.
He kept scrolling. Not thinking about the book, not thinking about Daniel Molloy. Not thinking about the advanced reader’s copy of the book by Daniel Molloy sitting on his coffee table in the exact spot it had occupied for more than a year. Not thinking about the vampires who kept threatening to flay him alive, but didn’t. The vampires that had suddenly gone quiet in recent months, or maybe it was just that Louis had stopped listening.
And he certainly wasn’t thinking about the text he’d received from Lestat maybe a week after Interview with the Vampire had come out, the one that simply stated—I read your book. The one Louis replied to with—I haven’t. The one that led to an entire conversation in which Louis finally learned just how egregiously the interview had been edited by the Talamasca. The conversation he—
Louis froze, stopped scrolling. Hovering his thumb a scant few millimeters over the phone. Feeling what he saw beaming out from the screen like a kick to the belly. His mouth tilting open and his pulse picking up all at once. He felt the tingle of it all the way down in his bones. It was—
A suggested reel. The account: thevampirelestat. The caption: Introducing The Vampire Lestat. You loved to loathe him in Daniel Molloy’s best selling page-turner Interview with the Vampire. Now get ready to…
Louis’ eyes unfocused. He couldn’t read the words that followed when his fumbling thumb clicked to expand the caption. Letting his gaze settle instead on the video playing in a shock of purple and chartreuse there on the tiny rectangle of his phone. Feeling a flash of heat creep up the back of his neck. Heat like fingers, heat like a lover’s living breath. It was—
Lestat. Golden threads of his hair tumbling over his lovely broad shoulders. The shock of his eyes like two blue planets slowly drawing Louis in. His chiseled face, a flash of his teeth. His fangs. Glitter and blood splashed all over. He was dancing. Fuck. Singing—he was probably singing. But it took Louis at least one full loop of the reel to realize the volume on his phone was turned down. His thumb finding the button on the edge and pressing until the sound blared to life through the tiny speaker.
Louis had to let the reel loop back on itself before he could make out any of the lyrics. The sight of Lestat’s swiveling hips and half-descended fangs enough to leave him feeling like his brain had been set alight.
Why the long face, my pretty baby?
Louis sat utterly mesmerized. He was a mortal locked in a trance. Watching the ninety-second clip and letting the image of Lestat swaying and snarling and crawling on all fours like a big hungry cat wash over him for so long he didn’t know how much time had passed when he snapped back to himself again. Shook his head, pressed the button to make the screen go dark and tossed the phone on the sofa beside him. Minutes, hours, days. He let out the enormous breath he’d been holding far too long. Thump of his pulse like a drum in his temples, his neck, the tips of his fingers.
His cock rock hard and straining the front of his pants to such a degree he would have laughed had he been able to feel anything but the warm clutch of desire deep inside him. The need of those familiar fangs pressing into the side of his neck. The want to be taken by his lover that had utterly consumed him.
He drew a handful of long deep breaths and begged his heart to settle. Too many thoughts in his head, a well of feelings plunging in him so deep he had no hope of ever seeing the bottom. He picked up his phone, copied the link to the video with trembling fingers and opened his texts with Lestat. The thread he only allowed himself to take comfort in every now and then. Forever forcing himself to stay distant even when his heart howled every moonrise for more, more…
He sent the link along with a single question mark and clutched his phone in both hands. Longing for a reply he didn’t expect to come on account of the two of them existing ten time zones apart. It was still daytime back in New Orleans. Lestat would be dead to the world in his grave. So it came as nothing short of a shock when not a minute later his phone buzzed.
Did you like it?
Louis let himself laugh a little. His cock was still half-hard in his pants. Too many words knocking around inside him he wanted to say all at once. Is it about me? he settled on after a minute or two, hands shaking so terribly he struggled to peck out the words.
All my songs are about you, Louis, Lestat replied a moment later.
Louis sat staring at the message until his screen went dark. Fragments of lyrics bouncing around his head until he could no longer make sense of the words. He needed to hear the full song. Yes—that’s what he needed to do. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel like the whole world around him was tipping upside down. Then maybe he could understand what—
Very carefully, he set the phone down on the sofa beside him. He reached for the iPad on the coffee table and flipped the cover open. Opened YouTube and let his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing long face the vampire lestat into the bar at the top of the screen and pressing the button to search.
The thumbnail for the first video that popped up made his stomach lurch. A shirtless Lestat awash in deep purple, white flash of his fangs falling down. Louis lay back on the sofa and propped the iPad up on his knees. Hesitated. Pressing down on the thumbnail with one gentle finger, his body flashing hot and cold all at once.
Driving guitar. Lestat’s voice purring out of him like his belly cradled an engine. It was impossible to focus on the lyrics at the same time he was watching Lestat’s hips and Louis forced his eyes to shut, really let the words sink in. Looping the video back three times as the meaning of it all tumbled like a heavy stone in his belly.
The lyrics weren’t exactly… romantic. Teasing, maybe. Definitely sexy. An undercurrent of bitterness permeating the whole thing that made Louis’ stomach burn. What does he have to be so bitter about? Louis almost laughed at the thought. Lying to himself was useless. A flash of memory hitting of the night two years ago in New Orleans when he’d left Lestat in that hotel suite alone. The week or so they’d spent before it orbiting each other and sharing a coffin. Never once making love in spite of how badly Louis had wanted to. Knowing if they fucked it would be over. He’d lose himself in the rush of Lestat Lestat Lestat for the rest of his eternity.
It hadn’t been a breakup, really, because they hadn’t gotten back together. Not that they’d ever managed to sever the bond of their hearts, but Louis figured close to eight decades of spite with someone else had to count for something. The day he left, Louis hadn’t been thinking clearly. Or maybe he’d been thinking with more clarity than he’d ever known in his life. Or maybe the simple act of thinking had always been his problem. All those years of trauma and suppression and regret converging inside him to create one singular voice that insisted what he needed more than anything was to try and make it on his own.
Louis supposed he’d only been able to walk away because they’d agreed on keeping in touch. Never going too long without checking in with each other. Even just a hello every now and then from Louis, a blurry picture of the moon Lestat had taken on his phone. Forever toeing that impossible line of too much and never enough.
Louis opened his eyes. The video looped back again and there he was—the real and living image of Lestat de Lioncourt writhing on the screen. A close-up shot of his glitter-spattered face absolutely wrecking Louis’ heart. Blood beating between his legs like a drum beneath the fist of a giant. Blue eyes like sirens, that familiar pink mouth with its scar tugging gently at one corner. Flesh slashed with the proof that Lestat had lived a life worthy of scarring in the time before. Louis wanted to trace the tip of his tongue against it and draw its secrets out.
Louis flipped the iPad shut and tossed it down on the sofa. Pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until in the great void of darkness beyond them a galaxy of stars began to turn. What the fuck. He pulled his hands away and let his eyes scan down to the space where his cock was tenting the front of his pants. Rock hard and aching. Suddenly feeling every second of the eight decades that had passed since the last time they fucked.
Shutting his eyes again. One hand sliding down and pressing to the bulge of his cock at the front of his pants. Pushing until the ache of it bloomed all the way down to his toes. Watching the video again would have been a mistake, but it was all he wanted. It was all he could think about. His body was burning all over with want. Skin tingling like it was suddenly being battered with sun.
His phone dinged with a text and his eyes flew open. Furious hammering of his heart rattling him down to his bones. He pulled his hand from himself and forced his lungs to draw breath. Forced himself to sit upright, cock howling for attention beyond the fabric of his pants as he reached for his phone. A single text from Lestat glowing on the screen like some celestial thing. It read—
Are you angry with me?
Louis laughed, shut his eyes again, drew a long, deep breath. He moved his palm along the front of his pants, feeling the throb of his desire that lay just underneath the fabric. The shape of himself, the swell of the head. Imagining the heat of Lestat’s pink mouth stretched and moaning around it. The warm, slick flesh of his throat as he sank down all the way to the balls. Taking every inch of Louis he could possibly get. Opening to his pleasure like a flower soaked in springtime sun.
Louis moaned, bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood, wishing it wasn’t his own. Wishing it was the taste of Lestat rolling sweet and red on his tongue. Losing himself to the longing for some world in which he might permit himself to have it. A world in which he might have just one drop and still claw his way back to himself. A world in which—
His eyes snapped open when another text dinged in. His heart fell into his stomach. His stomach dropped down to the floor when he read—
Perhaps we should speak on the phone.
The phone was ringing before the screen had a chance to go dark. Buzzing in Louis’ hand like a heart, his other hand still pressed to the throb of his cock over his pants. Fuck. He could hardly form a thought. Lestat’s name illuminated in stark white against a sea of blackness. The temptation of it far too strong for him to even consider not picking up. He—
Answered the call. Pressed the phone to his ear and listened to the rustle of Lestat shifting on the other end. Opened his mouth, tried to speak, finding nothing but air to greet him. A little inhalation of breath coming from the other end of the phone.
“Louis?”
Lestat’s voice purred into Louis, caressed the length of his spine like lover’s breath. Settled down between his legs like his oldest, sweetest friend.
“Hello, Lestat,” Louis said. Almost managed to make it sound natural, the edges of his voice wobbling just a little. Though he was breathing far too heavily, his heart was pounding far too loud. His cock was still rigid and pulsing, pulsing in his hand. “Surprised you’re awake. It’s… daytime. In New Orleans.”
On the other end of the phone, Lestat offered a thoughtful little hum. “Oui. It is. But I’ve taken to bringing my phone to coffin with me. In case you ever…”
The end of the sentence hung thick as fog in the air on the other end of the phone.
In case you ever need me.
Louis’ blood seemed to burn. His cock strained like a fist against the front of his pants. Hard and angry and howling for attention. He drew his hand over it one last time before forcing himself to pull away. He tried to slow his breath, tried to keep it even.
“Oh,” Louis just managed to push out. He bit at the inside of his cheek until he was certain he could keep his voice from shaking. “That’s…” Trying, trying. Begging the words to come. Pleading with his desire to settle. “Good to know.”
A silence lingered on the other end of the phone. Louis pictured Lestat in his coffin ten time zones away—swallowed in dark with his hair pulled back and his pajamas on. Glowing like a living god illuminating his own grave.
“Have I interrupted you in the middle of something, Louis?” Lestat’s voice came at last. The husky rumble of it was thunder pouring from his throat.
Louis bit his bottom lip. His erection wouldn’t die down. His heart was beating so loud he wondered if Lestat could hear it. If he could feel it in his chest beating sure and true as his own on the other side of the world. “No,” he croaked. Drew a long, deep breath through his nose and let it slowly pour from his mouth. “No, you haven’t interrupted anything, Lestat. Just… spendin’ a quiet night alone.”
“A quiet night all snuggled up with your Instagram feed.” Dark purr of Lestat’s voice slipping into Louis’ ear, dripping down the nape of his neck. “A little art exhibition in the palm of your hand.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were composing again?” Louis let a little spike of irritation rise in him, begging it to keep the desire at bay. His cock still painfully swollen in his pants, so hard he felt like he could have fucked through the penthouse floor clean down to the center of the Earth.
“It’s just a little something I’ve been doing in my spare time, cheri,” Lestat said, then immediately added—“Excusez-moi. Louis.”
Two years ago, Louis had decided—for the sake of his sanity—he needed endearments between them off the table. Feeling each one like a thread in his belly beckoning him ever-nearer. Cheri, mon cher. They all felt like come to me. He drew a breath, tried to remind himself of the thin logic of his decision. Why being alone for now was such an essential thing. That maybe in a hundred years he—
“Your spare time,” Louis said after a long, tense moment of silence. His arousal had begun to abate and the loss of the ache was almost worse than the burden. “So it’s just the one song then?”
“For now,” Lestat said, his voice like medicine soothing Louis’ senses. “My first single.” He let that sit for a moment. The rhythm of his breath like sweet, familiar music. “To be followed soon by my twenty-eight track double album, of course.”
Louis felt his heart stop dead in his chest. All my songs are about you, Louis. “Twenty-eight tracks,” he heard himself saying somewhere far away. Suddenly—it was like he was floating just outside of himself. Spirit leaving his flesh like a burden lifting. “About me.”
All Lestat offered in response was a breathy little—“Oui.”
Louis drew an enormous breath and let it leak back out. “About how pissed off you are at me.”
“Why would I be upset with you, Louis?”
Louis couldn’t help the laugh that puffed from his nose. “Bitter, then,” he said, trying to sound irritated but unable to keep the tenderness from his tone. “About someone else suckin’ me off a hundred years ago.”
Lestat was silent for a second or two. The rustle of him shifting crackled on the other end of the phone. “You analyzed the lyrics,” he said at last, every syllable coming out unbearably tender.
Louis laughed again, a little harder this time. “I listened to the lyrics, Lestat,” he said, and shut his eyes, and called on the image of Lestat’s face from the video. Called on the image of Lestat glowing in the dark on the other end of the phone. “Not exactly an academic pursuit to understand what you meant with that one.”
Louis pressed the phone tight against his ear. He could hear the drum of Lestat’s heart on the other end. Calling out like a siren ten time zones away in New Orleans.
“And so now you are angry with me,” Lestat said, sounding far too pleased with himself.
“No,” Louis said. And meant it. There were a thousand feelings roiling inside him and anger was the least of them all. “But I’m startin’ to think you want me to be.”
Lestat fell quiet for what felt like minutes, though it was probably only a second or two. Sound of his breath coming gently. Distant hypnotic rhythm, the calling siren of his heart. “I am merely expressing myself, Louis,” he said. “You know, the same way you expressed yourself in your… interview. Daniel Molloy’s bestselling—”
“Here we go,” Louis said with a sigh, and arousal flared in him alongside a spike of irritation. Each one drawing on the other in a familiar, tremulous dance. “I already told you why I did that interview. And that I tried to stop—I never wanted there to be a book. You know that.”
“And yet a book there is.”
“I knew you were pissed at me.” Yes, Louis thought in one foggy corner of his mind. Yes, yes. “I knew—”
“I am not pissed, cher—Louis.” Lestat audibly swallowed on the other end of the phone. “It’s clear to me you are the one who is—”
“What are we even doing right now, Lestat?” Louis sighed the irritation out. There was something else happening here—something, something. He rested his hand against his half-hard cock over his pants, felt his arousal shrinking. “Why did you really call me?”
Silence again. Louis could feel the wheels turning in that beautiful golden head eight-thousand miles away. “My first single is doing quite well. Rolling Stone is calling me an overnight sensation. And the other vampires, well…” A soft little puff of laughter on the other end of the phone. “Never mind about them.” The seconds of silence that followed pressed on Louis’ heart like angry hands. “I will be embarking on my North American tour next year. In the spring,” Lestat continued at last. “And I’m going to need someone to document. Take photographs for my social media accounts.”
Louis’ head felt like a balloon. Bobbing up to the ceiling, trying to make sense of itself. “A tour,” he heard himself say, and in his mind’s eye he saw a flash of Lestat surrounded by ten thousand undulating people all screaming his name at once. “For the double album you made… about me.” Arousal stirring, swelling. Trying to call on his irritation again but it wouldn’t come. “In your spare time.”
“Well, you did always love it when I performed for you, did you not? It would be like that only on a much larger scale.” Lestat drew a long deep breath on the other end of the phone. “I miss being on stage. It has been far too long. And I would like you to…” He paused, and Louis felt so many feelings all at once it was a wonder they didn’t tear him apart. “I read in your book about your photography. The pictures you found yourself compelled to take on the streets of Paris.”
Louis’ insides felt all twisted up. He sat up straight at once, pressed both feet to the floor. “What are you asking me, Lestat?”
“Come with me, Louis,” Lestat said, his tone a heady mix of hopefulness and dreadful tension. “Take my picture. I want to be seen as only you can see me.”
Louis’ blood went from a throb to a roar. On the other end of the phone, he knew Lestat could hear it. “I have work,” he said, and swallowed around the boulder of tension that had lodged itself in his throat. “Places I need to be.”
He could hear the lie in his own words as he said them. He was planning to make an appearance at the exhibition of an up-and-coming sculptor in London two weeks from now, but other than that he’d left his calendar wide open. Feeling content to simply be for a while. Lounge around the penthouse. Listen to records and read and smoke.
“I’m sure we can make it work with your schedule,” Lestat said, calm and easy and gentle. His tone so soft Louis felt it like a kiss to the center of his throat. “After all, the tour is more than half a year from now.”
“I’m not a photographer,” Louis said without thinking. And though he’d already fed, his veins hurt like he didn’t have enough blood inside him. Like he was withering away. “Don’t even own a modern camera that isn’t attached to my phone. I’m sure you can find plenty of professionals to take your picture, Lestat.”
“And yet none of those so-called professionals would have the eye that you do, my Louis.”
Louis had his eyes squeezed shut. Picturing what it might feel like to crawl through the phone and lie next to Lestat in the dark of his coffin. Press his ear right to the sacred hammering of his maker’s heart. “What do you know about my eye, hm?” One corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Not like you’ve ever seen any of my pictures.”
“I know you, Louis,” Lestat said, his voice so dark and low Louis felt it like a hand stroking down the nape of his neck. “Know the way you see the world through those beautiful eyes.” He breathed. Warm, heavy sound. Exhalation like kisses all down the side of Louis’ neck. “There can be no one else.” Tug of the words in Louis’ bones. Come to me. “No one else to see me as you do.”
Syllables like fingers dragging over his senses. Louis lay flat on his back on the sofa, covering his eyes with one hand, suddenly unable to bear the sight of the world around him. He wanted to be in the dark. He wanted to be where Lestat was. Snuggled safe beside him in the quiet of his coffin.
“Lestat, I…” When Louis’ voice came out at last it was hardly a whisper. His want for this thing far too great to permit himself to have it. He could feel it in his bones—the losing of himself already. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I…”
“I figured you might say as much,” Lestat said after an extended moment of silence in which Louis lay motionless listening to the drum of his own blood in his head and nothing more. “But… do you think perhaps you could…”
Louis pictured him there in the dark—the hollow of his throat the palest siren. Imagined seeking out the ridge of his Adam’s apple and sealing his lips around it. Following it down like an arrow guiding him back home.
“Will you think about it at least?” Lestat’s voice was so small when it came again. It was the voice of an almost-broken thing, a human. “Can you do that for me, Louis?”
Louis uncovered his eyes, drew his hand down his torso over his shirt slowly, slowly, stopping just shy of the waistband of his pants. “Yeah,” he said, the word croaking out of him gently. “I can do that for you, Lestat.”
—
After they’d said their goodbyes—their goodnights, good mornings, their talk to your soons I hope I pray I wish—Louis took his phone and his iPad into the bedroom and turned off all the lights. Set a few candles to burning on the bedside table. Took off all his clothes and turned down the covers and sprawled in the middle of the bed. So horny he could barely hold onto the thread of his logic. What he needed now more than anything was a little relief.
All he truly wanted was to call Lestat back and say—purr, beg, whisper—Talk to me, say anything. Tell me about the way you touch yourself when you think of me in your coffin. Tell me all about the songs you wrote for me. Instead—he opened the iPad and set the Long Face video to loop from the beginning. Propped it up on the bed there beside him, draped himself on a mound of pillows. Touched his finger to the screen to start the video playing and—
Yes. There it was. At once—the purr of Lestat’s voice was moving inside him. Pushing itself so deep he felt it knocking around in his bones. It felt in every way like being penetrated. Sound waves thrusting into him like two thick fingers. Three, four. He kept his eyes on the screen, on Lestat’s face, his naked torso. Running a hand over his chest and thumbing at the nub of one nipple. Lifting the other to his mouth so he could spit into his palm once, twice, three times.
Wrapping his hand around his dick, he gasped. His back arching deeply as Lestat’s mouth smirked at him from the iPad screen. The tiniest flash of his fangs better than any pornography. Imagining those lovely sharp tips piercing the side of his neck to open his artery. That ultimate act of vampiric intimacy he’d not had with his maker since February 1940. And he wanted—he needed—
His toes curled down into the mattress. Louis shut his eyes and let the music thrust into him swiftly. Low, dark drawl of Lestat’s voice booming sweet as thunder. He stroked his cock once, twice. Called upon the image of Lestat beyond the dark of his eyes and imagined it happening just like this—
Lestat, there in the room with him now. Lestat, clad in leather pants with his shirt off standing at the foot of the bed. “Mon cher,” he imagined him saying. Heard it real and true as the music playing on the iPad beside him. “My Louis, Louis…”
Bass line of desire throbbing deep inside him. His hand stroked up and down the blood-fat length of his dick. Lingering on the glans, twisting his wrist just so. Pre-come drooling at the tip as—in his mind’s eye—he saw Lestat at the foot of the bed ridding himself of his pants.
“Cheri,” Lestat said behind the dark of Louis’ eyes, smirking as he crawled onto the bed. And in the video whirring beside him Lestat purred out his song.
I’m piano, and you’re forte…
Louis swore he felt the bed dip under the weight of his imagined lover. Sucking a breath through his nose when the familiar heat of two big hands pressed like flames to his skin.
“I have eight decades longed to taste you,” Louis imagined Lestat saying, purring, eyes like those of a love-starved beast gazing up at him. “To open up your precious artery and drink your sweetness down.”
Through the iPad speakers, Lestat breathed and moaned. The Lestat crawling up the length of Louis’ body flashed his teeth. Peppering kisses all along the flesh of one thigh as the video looped back to its beginning again. Bass line thumping in time with his heart. He worked the head of his cock in his hand, slicking himself with pre-come all over. His knees drawing back, his legs spreading wide. The soles of his feet pressing flat to the mattress.
Hair a spray of pale fire on top of his head. Lestat’s eyes were portals to summer days long gone. Two big white fangs falling down—yes. That was what Louis needed. And there in his mind’s eye those fangs were sinking into the flesh of his thigh slowly, slowly. Long Face blaring out from the iPad speakers as he blindly spit in his palm three more times.
Louis felt it real and true, as though it might really be happening. Well—almost. His mind could almost take him there, almost conjure the thrill of Lestat’s mouth latched onto his thigh and sucking the blood right out. Almost, almost. His cock throbbing in his hand as he stroked, so close to the edge of spilling over already it bordered on madness.
“Oh, Louis,” Louis’ imagining of Lestat said with blood dripping red from his mouth. And through the iPad speakers an electric guitar cried its pleasure. “I’m afraid I’m going to have no choice but to swallow you whole. Right down to the root, my sweet.”
The song looped on. Louis’ fist flew over his cock. Imagining the heat of Lestat’s eager mouth wrapping all around him. Wet pink lips encircling the swell of his cockhead. Velvet curl of his tongue lapping pre-come straight from Louis’ slit. A sensation that almost felt too real to have been imagined. A sensation that washed over him head-to-foot like coming home after years away, like love, like music.
Louis opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the screen just as he started to come. Orgasm punching out like a bass line as Lestat howled and writhed on the floor. Shooting warm and sticky all over his belly, his toes curling into the mattress. His mouth falling open as the sounds of his pleasure began to crack their way out of his throat. Making a chorus of himself and the music. And for one perfect instant before it ended—he and Lestat were howling as one.
The song was over. His body was spent. Quivering and sticky, he knocked the iPad down and flipped the cover over the screen before the video could loop again. The only sound in the whole of Dubai the drum of Louis’ afterglow heart.
He stared at the empty space between his legs, tried to call on the image of Lestat to join him in the bed just as he had behind his eyes. That vivid imagining of him he’d call on for comfort all those years ago in Romania, Paris. A scant few times there in the penthouse in Dubai. But his brain wouldn’t grant him the pleasure. There was nothing but the ache under his ribs throbbing to the rhythm of alone alone alone.
He fought with all he had to not reach for his phone and call Lestat. Or text him, beg him—Come to me. He could hardly stand the feeling now of being in that big empty bed all alone. The need for the cramped comfort of a shared grave was a sickening, physical thing.
He drew a long, deep breath and clutched it in his lungs until they burned. Shivering on the exhale and begging the tears not to come. Not now, not yet, not like this. Begging his body to accept the dull roar of being in that tomb alone. To simply accept the being. That’s what he was doing now—being. He clutched at his logic with both hands. Gathering the threads around himself until they made a lovely shroud.
Time passed. Minutes or maybe an hour. At last—he left his bed, left his tomb. Padded naked down the hall to the bathroom and turned the water in the shower up as hot as it would go. And there beneath the scorch of the spray, gazing down at his own bare feet with water swirling all around them—Louis let the shroud fall. Finally let the sobbing come.
—
Months passed in which Louis dragged himself around each night with an ache in his chest so insistent it was like he’d been cursed with a brand new heart. Or a bruise in his chest where his heart should have gone. Seeing the Long Face video had shifted something deep inside him. That something cleaving at his insides every time he thought about the open invitation to join Lestat—real and true and in person—out on his North American tour.
Louis hadn’t allowed himself to watch the video since that night. He didn’t go on Instagram anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to listen to Lestat’s double album when it dropped. Just the thought of hearing twenty-eight tracks about himself sung by Lestat was enough to make his whole body burn like he’d stepped in the sun.
He did his best to stay busy. He filled his schedule with things. Following his brief stay in London, he went to Amsterdam and spent a whole week of nights in which he did little else but wander around the empty museums. Convening with Vermeer, Rembrandt, van Gogh. Draining tourists on the cobbled streets and tucked behind the narrow houses that rimmed the murky canals. Staying stoned on the cannabis laced in their blood. Doing his best to think of little else but each night in and of itself as it was stretching out before him.
He went to Brussels, Madrid, Milan. He spent the month of November in New York haunting the rooms of an opulent rental on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He wandered the streets late at night hoping someone—anyone—would be silly enough to try and pick a fight with him. He hunted when he wanted. He gorged himself on American blood. He visited galleries and purchased paintings and hardly ever allowed himself to look at his phone.
But he just went back to Dubai in the end. He hired and almost immediately fired a new assistant. He decided—save for weekly cleaners and his revolving door of humans donating blood—he was no longer in need of a staff. If he was really flying solo, he was going to have to mean it. And after his little vacation he was already doing so well on his own.
One mild night in early December, he bought himself a point-and-shoot camera. A marvelous modern machine both similar to and entirely unlike the Leica he’d loved so much back in Paris. Reasoning with himself it was a practical purchase; it was strange, really, that he’d never had one. It didn’t have to be about Lestat. It wasn’t exactly a requirement that one be an aspiring professional of any sort to simply own a digital camera.
The first photos he took were of himself, fully clothed, as reflected by his bathroom mirror. They were the sort of photos he could have taken at any time with his phone. He pricked his bottom lip with a fang just to snap a picture when the blood dripped down. After a while—he wiped the blood away, he took off all his clothes. He snapped a half dozen shots of his naked body before dressing again and leaving the penthouse with his camera in tow.
Down at the marina, he took photos of the city lights splashing their vibrance over the water. Auroras painted man-made blue; the shimmering images of a thousand false yellow stars. He stalked along the promenade and photographed thick blurs of faceless people. He snapped the washed-out sky over his head; he captured neon water gushing into the night from a fountain. He photographed his own shoes, the backs of his hands, milky nails shining like little weapons in the dimness.
For several nights after, he stood on his balcony and photographed the waters that rimmed the Palm Jumeirah. Colors from the high rises splashing their impressions on that murky canvas. After, he would sit in his pit of coffin rocks barefoot in the reading room. Flicking through the pictures, trying not to think too much about what he was actually doing. Some long-buried part of him wishing for a dark room, or real film at least. Silver halide freezing the world in its own image instead of those tiny pixels shimmering on their tiny screen.
And then, one night, about a week before Christmas—Lestat called out of the blue. And Louis’ meticulously crafted, quiet, private, totally-for-himself-and-no-one-else world was suddenly tipping upside down. Melting like a house made of candy. Falling free from some impossible height and shattering all around him.
“Hello, Lestat,” Louis said into the phone. His pulse hammering so hard in his throat it was a struggle to speak around it.
“Hello, Louis,” Lestat said, the tenderness in his tone almost more than Louis could bear. “I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time.”
Dead air between them for a second or two. Louis swallowed around the hammer of his heart. “No, you’re…” He looked down at the point-and-shoot he clutched in one hand. The back of it displaying a fuzzy shot of his bare torso. “You’re not inconveniencing me, Lestat.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Lestat replied a moment later. Voice hushed, not quite a whisper but something on the edges of it. Letting a silence linger, like he was waiting for Louis to reach through the phone and pull the words right out.
“Is everything all right?” He drew an enormous breath and huffed it out. He flicked to the next picture on the back of the camera: a fuzzy view of a wedge-shaped moon through a haze of light pollution.
“Everything is perfectly fine, Louis. I’m…” Soft puff of laughter on the other end of the phone. In his mind’s eye, Louis imagined the tender pink curl of his mouth. “Making preparations for the tour. After the holidays, my band and I will begin our rehearsals in Los Angeles. We have acquired a lovely property in Laurel Canyon to use for the duration.”
“Oh.” Louis counted out the time zones that might separate them then—ten, eleven, twelve. Spreading the distance out like a crumbing map beneath his hands. “That’s… really exciting, Lestat. I’m happy for you.”
Louis’ words came out like automation. Like he’d become some cold, mechanical figment of himself. He didn’t feel the shapes of the syllables as he said them. He felt nothing but the raging bruise of his own long-dead heart.
“So, I—I’ve…” Lestat started and stopped. Sounding like such a fragile thing. Something one second from being blown right over. “I’ve been wondering if you… perhaps.” He paused for a fraction of a second in which Louis could do nothing but ache to hear his voice again. “If you perhaps have thought about what I asked of you the last time we spoke.”
Louis slowly set his camera down, nestling its little silver body in the rocks between his legs. “Yes and no,” he said. Shutting his eyes. Pressing one hand against them until stars began to burst in the blackness. “Mostly no.”
When Louis opened his eyes the stars came with him. Painting themselves in fits of yellow light against the ceiling up over his head. He forced a handful of shuddering breaths. He listened to Lestat breathing on the other end of the phone and waited for him to say something, something, anything at all.
“Maybe we should talk about it in person,” Lestat offered Louis at last. Saying it so casually. Like the very thought of seeing Lestat in person now didn’t send Louis’ heart rocketing from his chest to his throat. “I would be happy to come to Dubai and meet with you.”
“I wouldn’t…” Louis’ voice caught in his throat the moment he tried to speak. Suddenly—he felt like a mortal stricken with illness. He felt his brain shorting out. He felt his muscles begin to atrophy. “I wouldn’t ask you to come all this way. You should be—”
“If you don’t want to see me I will respect your wishes, but…” Lestat’s voice was so hushed it was like he couldn’t bear for anyone but Louis to hear it. “I would gladly come to you, Louis. If you were on the moon I would soar through the atmosphere joyfully just to catch a glimpse of you at a distance.”
It was incredible, really, Louis thought, how with just a few simple words he could feel all his resolve lifting from him and floating away. Floating up to the moon, or drowning itself in the dark waters that surrounded his home. How he couldn’t find a single word rattling in the roar of his head that might offer up some protest. He could deny the job being offered until the sun went dead. He could deny himself his eternal companion under the guise of needing to be on his own. But he could not deny the way his heart howled at the mere mention of Lestat coming to see him. He could not find a way to tell his brain to tell his mouth to tell Lestat anything resembling no.
And what would a meeting with his friend hurt, anyway? That’s what they were now—they were friends. And friends sometimes saw each other. It didn’t mean Louis was failing at being content on his own. It didn’t mean they were getting back together. It didn’t mean he was giving in.
“Yeah, okay,” Louis heard himself saying. Just letting the words come, come. Letting desire pour from him like blood from the veins of some hapless human. “Come to me. We can talk.”
—
Three nights later, Louis stood out on the balcony with a cigarette chugging away in his hand. Not lifting it up to his mouth, just watching the thin wisps of white smoke slip from the end like they were trying to stain the dark. Lestat was due to arrive in just under twenty-four hours. Every time Louis thought about seeing him in person—really seeing him—for the first time in over two years he felt so incandescent it was a wonder he didn’t burn.
It was a pleasant Dubai December night, sixty-five degrees with hardly any wind to speak of. Light pollution swallowing stars. Louis’ veins were pumping hot and red with that night’s feast of donor blood. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag, exhaled, watched the smoke endure its way toward the sky. He was going to say no to Lestat again. A fact he understood so completely it was a cruelty he would allow him to come all the way to Dubai just to hear it.
He stubbed his cigarette out. Almost at once—the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Feeling the sensation in his brain stem before he smelled it. That familiar scent he knew like the backs of his own hands. A movement on the air like wind—but no. Not wind. Almost like the very atoms of the air were vibrating all around him. Like the night itself was lifting up on its tiptoes to kiss him. Suddenly—
Lestat was there. Hovering just beyond the balcony, golden hair framing his face like a fallen halo. A big leather duffel bag sagging from one of his shoulders. He was wearing blue jeans and heavy-looking boots. A black leather jacket with a white t-shirt peeking out from underneath. Saying nothing—just hovering there with his bright eyes open wide and fixed on Louis. Slowly willing himself closer and downward until both boots were planted firmly on the balcony. Until he was standing maybe six feet from Louis.
Lestat dropped his bag down on the balcony with a thunk. And for a long stretch of seconds after, the whole world around them seemed to go totally silent. Like some great invisible hand had turned the volume all the way down. Louis couldn’t hear his own breath or the pumping of their shared blood. He couldn’t feel his face, his hands. He felt like he was floating without his feet ever lifting from the ground. He—
Was moving. Unimaginable vampire speed propelling him forward until their bodies were crashing together and he was folding Lestat in his arms. Oh—oh. Lestat, real and true and living. And suddenly the sound came rushing back to Louis all at once. And the whole entire world was the beating of their hearts. Hard and fast and falling perfectly in rhythm the moment their chests pressed together. One of Louis’ hands gripping the nape of Lestat’s neck beneath his hair, the other bunching up the leather of his jacket. Breathing in, breathing in, breathing—
Oh. Pressing his face to the side of Lestat’s neck, scenting the blood in his artery. Baby, he thought, suddenly so overcome with weakness it was a wonder his knees didn’t give out. Baby, baby. His lips almost uttering the words, his breath almost shaping the sounds. Somewhere beyond the music of their hearts, he was pretty sure he heard Lestat muttering his name.
Louis Louis Louis.
Holding onto him. Drag of Louis’ nose up along the curve of his neck. Lestat was there—he was there. He was warm and solid and Louis could feel him. The heat of his skin, the weight of his breath, the never-ceasing rhythm of his immortal heart. And Louis couldn’t help it when the tips of his fangs jutted out. Begging for just one taste of his beloved—his blood, the sting of the salt on his skin. Wanting wanting wanting—
“Louis.” Lestat’s hands pressed to Louis’ back over his shirt. They felt like flames, like love, like precious living weapons. “Will you let me see your face? S'il te plaît.”
Louis called on all his strength to force his fangs to retract. Drawing a long, deep breath and pulling back slowly as he let it fall from him. Punch drunk and dizzy, begging his brain to beg his body to beg his heart to try and remember Lestat was nothing more than his friend.
His friend.
He straightened his neck, he breathed again. Before he could hope to shake the stars from his head Lestat was taking Louis’ face in his hands. Gazing at him with a slick of red covering his lovestruck eyes. One corner of his mouth curling up—oh. So beautiful Louis wished for death. Feeling it deep in his bones when Lestat leaned close and nuzzled the ends of their noses together.
“Hello, my sweet,” Lestat said, voice hushed, nearly drowned out by the pulse of the blood that beat between them. His breath moving over Louis’ mouth so gently it felt like a kiss.
Louis let all the logic drain from him for a glorious handful of seconds. Let all his defenses crumble. Allowed himself to be touched, almost tasted. Allowed himself to be adored by his maker. His god, his creator, the one who filled every chamber of the open wound of his heart.
“Hello, Lestat,” Louis said, whispered really. Voice so thick with emotion it gave him away in an instant. It was only then he realized he was gripping the front of Lestat’s leather jacket in both hands. “You’re…” He forced his hands to relax and fall away. Forced himself to not weep when Lestat’s hands ceased to cradle his face. “You’re early.”
Lestat took a small step back and one corner of his mouth curled up, right in the place where his smile met his scar. “Well, you know…” He gestured airily with one hand, reached up and tucked a tuft of golden hair behind the shell of his ear. “I moved some things around and thought why not come now. Why not—”
“Make a grand entrance?” Louis couldn’t help but smile. Though all he wanted to do was throw his arms around Lestat again. Or press his ear to his maker’s chest and listen to the drum of his heart.
“I fear you know me too well, my Louis.” Lestat tried a laugh, averting his gaze for a moment, nothing short of bashful. “But if it is a bad time—”
“It’s not.” Louis let his gaze linger for a long moment on the dark thin line of Lestat’s scar, fighting the urge to lunge forward and press his tongue against it. “Do you…” He stepped back, half-turned, gestured to the open balcony door. Drowning in the rhythm of their perfectly synced up hearts. “Do you wanna come inside?”
Lestat offered Louis the softest smile. Blue eyes shining in the dark like homing beacons. “Of course,” he said, and reached for his bag and slung it over his shoulder. And followed Louis in silence through the open balcony door.
Louis watched Lestat’s gaze sweep around the room, taking all the little details in. The floor-to-ceiling windows and the glimmer of Dubai beyond. The bouquet of fresh flowers on the table—leathery red anthurium with their shocking yellow stamens. All his features soft with contentment. He set his bag down gently on the floor.
“It’s much more beautiful than Daniel Molloy described in his book,” Lestat said, fixing the shock of his eyes on Louis. “You’ve always had such exquisite taste, cheri.”
Louis felt the endearment in his belly. Wanted to protest, wanted to shove it away because it just felt too goddamn good. Waited a second or two for Lestat to take it back and sighing when he didn’t. “Yeah, well, a little more colorful now than it was when…”
Louis knew he didn’t need to finish that particular sentence. Lestat quirked one corner of his mouth, offered Louis a nod of his head.
“Quiet,” Lestat said, moving his eyes from Louis to scan around the room once more. Taking a few tentative steps in the direction of the sofa. “No staff living with you at present?”
“I don’t… really have a staff anymore.” Louis couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over Lestat from head to foot when he turned away. Swell of his ass in his blue jeans the cruelest temptation. “Cleaners once a week. Some people on the payroll for blood. But I’ve been huntin’ more lately…”
Lestat spun around to offer Louis the full weight of his gaze. His eyes azure and radiant, his skin pinked with fresh warm blood. He’d taken at least one somewhere nearby before he’d come to Louis. “I imagine that is quite the sight to behold,” he said, and flashed Louis the pearly ends of his teeth. “My Louis in all his vampiric glory.”
Louis stepped nearer without really meaning to. Allowing instinct to drive him forward until they were so close they almost touched. Until they were so close Louis could feel the heat spilling out from under Lestat’s leather jacket. “Don’t act like we never hunted together,” he said, steeling himself with a laugh, a sound he almost managed to make sound casual. “You’ve seen me kill a thousand times before.”
Lestat’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “And it is a wonder every time,” he said, smile blooming until Louis caught the tiniest flash of his fangs poking out. “I imagine even more so now that you are…settling into yourself. After all this time.”
The blood was pounding thick and red in the side of Lestat’s pale neck. Louis let his eyes slide over it gently, imagined the taste in his mouth like being born again. “That’s a…” He forced himself to meet Lestat’s gaze, to tamp the useless burning of his longing down. Just saying whatever came into his head without thinking. “Nice jacket, by the way.”
Lestat’s eyes narrowed, his pupils bloomed wide. Oh—the longing was burning so much hotter now. “You like it?” Averting his gaze, almost bashful again. Running his hands down the front of the soft dark leather. “I was thinking of getting a motorbike to match, but I’ve been so busy with the album and now preparations for the tour…”
Their eyes met again. Louis felt it like a kiss pressed to the center of his throat. “Well, I guess maybe…” A flash of an image in his brain so real it was like he was looking at a picture: Louis wrapped around Lestat from behind, a sleek black motorcycle beneath them. Head resting against one leather-clad shoulder as they whirred down a boulevard dotted with lights. “You know…” He took a step back just to tamp down the temptation of Lestat’s skin that was calling from under his clothes. “You got plenty’a time, so. One day…”
Lestat gave a thoughtful little hum and closed the distance Louis had opened between them. Reaching out and letting their fingers brush as he slipped past on his way to the sofa. “One day,” he said, and sat down. Leaning back casually and crossing his legs. Little tip of his head, golden hair like embers. “Shall we chat?”
Louis’ knees went all wobbly. He almost sat down before immediately thinking better of it. He’d end up sprawled in Lestat’s lap if he wasn’t careful. Drawing a shaky breath, he begged his heart to settle. “Actually, I…” His eyes slid over Lestat’s body slowly. White t-shirt beyond the open front of his jacket leading down to denim clad thighs. And in between them—oh. They might as well have been the gates of Heaven. “I have to be honest with you, Lestat.”
Infinitesimal shift in Lestat’s expression. Their hearts were keeping perfect time together and Louis did his best to ignore it. Waiting for Lestat to say something, anything—quip something clever, choose to be a brat on purpose. But he didn’t. He only stayed silent and still and waited for Louis to continue. Gave a little quirk of his brow.
“I already know what my answer’s gonna be.” Louis drew a long, deep breath and slowly let it back out. “It was wrong of me to let you come here thinkin’ I was gonna change my mind. I’m not a photographer, Lestat.”
Lestat blinked once. Slowly, his eyes slid down and away, landing on something just beyond where Louis was standing. Saying nothing, he leaned forward, and Louis turned just in time to see that something being swiped by Lestat’s hand from the coffee table. It was—
Louis’ little point-and-shoot camera. Lestat sat back, cradled the tiny silver machine in his hands like it was something most precious. Louis would have snatched it away, but when he tried to move so much as a finger he found himself totally frozen. He couldn’t even breathe—fuck. He could only stand there watching Lestat fiddle with the buttons on the back of the camera, his expression visibly shifting when he started flicking through the pictures on the miniature screen.
“Oh,” Lestat exclaimed softly after a minute or two. And let his eyes drift from the camera to Louis. “This one…” Slowly, he flipped the camera around. Held it out so Louis might see all those pixels mashing together to create the image on the screen. “It is exquisite work, Louis.”
Heat flared from the soles of Louis’ feet all the way up to the top of his head. It was one of his self portraits. His naked body glowing under artificial light, his own face half-obscured by his camera. His distance from the mirror over the vanity exposing his naked flesh from mid-thigh upward.
Louis ripped his gaze from his own nakedness and set his eyes on Lestat again. His whole body seemed to gutter like a candle in the dark. “Garden variety self-portrait,” he said, and tried a laugh. The candle of his body flaring when Lestat set his eyes on the back of the camera again. “Nothin’ special about it. Basically a dick pic, Lestat.”
The scar in the corner of Lestat’s mouth etched itself deep when he smiled this time. He lifted his eyes to Louis again. “Well, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t always stunned breathless at the sight of your naked body, cheri.”
“Lestat, don’t—” Louis clenched his fists at his sides, shut his eyes and drew a long, deep breath. Don’t get hard, he begged himself. Don’t get hard—don’t get hard—don’t. “Please…”
“You are beauty and beholder,” Lestat said, his expression soft but serious when Louis was brave enough to open his eyes again. “A lens in place of one eye. You are seeing and being seen. And the way the light has painted your skin right here…”
Lestat drew the tip of one finger along the image on the screen, utterly transfixed for a moment. Caressing that miniature pixelated version of Louis all over.
“C'est magnifique,” Lestat continued at last, and once again offered his gaze to Louis. “You have the eye of a true artist, Louis. What a shame it would be to see it go to waste.”
Louis opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. And what was there to really say? He could stand there and argue against his own eye all day, but hadn’t some part of him always intended for Lestat to see those particular pictures? Even if he hadn’t thought it in any coherent way at the time—seeing himself in the mirror, hadn’t there been a particular ache? Something inside him longing deep. I want to be seen as only you can see me.
He blinked. Watched as Lestat slowly rose from the sofa. Slowly pushed into Louis’ personal space, the two of them nearly chest-to-chest for one brief moment. Scent of leather, beloved song of his maker’s blood. Desire kicked between Louis’ legs like an angry god was trapped inside him. Pumping blood with a strike of its fist. He prayed to it quietly for its mercy. Not now. Just wait. But, oh, he’s so close. He’s so close, he’s so—
Lestat slipped past Louis and set the camera on the coffee table. Went to where he’d left his duffel, knelt before it, opened it up and reached inside. Pulling out what appeared to be the sole contents of the bag at once, the leather seeming to wither in the wake of its own empty.
Lestat rose to his feet with a box in his hands. A package wrapped in deep green paper with a golden ribbon wrapped around it. He carried it to Louis and offered it, silent and soft, waiting for him to take it.
“What’s this?” Louis asked, eyes on the package he was suddenly holding. He knew what he was going to find inside. His hands were already shaking. He raised his eyes to Lestat and waited for an answer anyway.
“I just thought. Perhaps…” Lestat gave a casual wave of his hand, his smile carving out a sad little gash on his face. “I still hope you enjoy it. You deserve to, Louis. Even if you don’t wish to come with me.” The tiniest puff of laughter fell from his nose. “And after all, it is Christmas.”
“Oh,” Louis said somewhere outside of himself. The sound of his own voice echoed in the cavern of his head. “I…” Looking down at the present in his hands, the paper phthalo green, the ribbon the gold of stars pulled down from Heaven. “I didn’t get you anything.”
When Louis looked at him again, Lestat’s face was like a gem gleaming in its band of gold. His eyes were red-rimmed and damp. The scar in the corner of his mouth creased deep with an almost-smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said, his voice so hushed it was almost a whisper. “You don’t have to open it now if you don’t want to.”
Before Lestat could even finish his sentence Louis was sitting. Placing the package on his knees and tugging at the bow. The wrapping itself so meticulous it didn’t seem to have a single visible seam. Blood deafening him to the point of near-madness, Louis scored one edge with the tip of his nail, removing the paper from the box like he was skinning an animal. Slowly, slowly. Gently, gently. All the way around. Like he had to be precise about it lest he damage the precious flesh it was holding within.
The skin of phthalo green fell away. The insides of the animal revealing themselves to be a box containing a Canon digital camera body and a single starter lens. An efficient beast of a machine much more suited for modern professional photography than the timid point-and-shoot he’d bought for himself.
Louis raised his eyes to Lestat. And blinked. There was a feeling in his stomach he couldn’t name. It wasn’t about the expense. The money was nothing. A crumb, a speck. He could have bought himself a thousand identical cameras. But when was the last time anyone had given him a gift like this? Something with true thought behind it. Something meant only for him.
Louis couldn’t remember. Maybe, he thought, maybe—Christmas 1939. The last Christmas they spent together before…
“I nearly bought you a film camera thinking you might prefer to do it the old way, but these digital machines seem much more practical. And now I see you’ve taken the plunge into digital photography yourself and, well…” Lestat shifted his weight, reached up and touched his hair. Immortal, untouchable, unkillable beast gesturing like a bashful boy speaking to his crush at school. “Though if you would prefer to use film I would be more than happy to—”
“It’s perfect,” Louis ran his hands along the glossy black of the box. He couldn’t yet bring himself to open it up and look inside. “Thank you, I—I’m sorry I can’t…” Looking away, past the temptation of Lestat’s golden face to the lights of Dubai beyond the windows. “Lestat, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Louis,” Lestat said softly when Louis offered his gaze again. Louis ached to draw him close and soak up the precious heat of his skin. “You owe me nothing, my sweet.”
—
Broad shoulders stooped, golden head bowed. Louis stood at a distance in the reading room with his eyes fixed on Lestat from behind. He was standing in front of Claudia’s yellow dress that held the invisible shape of her behind a pane of glass. Strains of grief spilling from him in subtly sickening waves.
The only thing Louis could feel standing there watching was regret. Regret so bone-deep it made his marrow hurt. Lestat didn’t need to see this, he didn’t need the reminder of his grief. But he’d asked for a tour and Louis would have sooner died than say no to him again. Not after he’d come all this way just for another rejection. Louis needed to give him something. A moment of levity perhaps, something to hold onto. He just hadn’t planned on that something being, well… this.
Sudden intense aching for a camera, but all Louis had in his pocket was his phone. He pulled it out and let the instinct take him, his need to freeze time hitting hard as hunger—yes. Raising up the phone, he gazed for a long time at the image before him through the barrier of the screen. Not thinking, only feeling—he snapped a single picture and stared at it for a long moment just drinking the sight of it in. Black leather, blue jeans, golden hair. Claudia’s dress a yellow aura all around the edges of him.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. Why had he taken the picture? Something in the pit of him insisting he’d somehow made the moment better by finding some beauty in the grief.
“Lestat,” he said, trying to shake off the immensity of the feelings. His whole body turning liquid when Lestat turned slowly to face him.
Lestat said nothing, shaped his mouth into a sad little smile. Louis fought the urge to push forward and cling to him and never let go again. Took a few mindless steps and stopped when he felt the press of bone-white rocks under his bare feet. The rocks in his ankles making themselves known as a series of dull aches, like they were trying to claw out and join their brethren.
Lestat came over, rocks crunching beneath the heavy soles of his boots. He kept his eyes fixed on Louis, sat down on the stool nestled into the rocks a short distance away. Close enough that Louis could feel his heat and his blood, not quite close enough to reach out and touch. Blue eyes ringed with thin lines of crimson. Faint pink tracks drying on both his cheeks. “There is something I should tell you,” he said, the set of his jaw hard and tense. Louis knew he was biting back the urge to sob with everything he had. “Daniel Molloy will be joining me on tour. Conducting an interview for a new book and a series of videos on his YouTube channel.”
Louis swore he felt his stomach drop down into his feet. It nestled itself in the rocks. It gathered all those tiny stones and clutched them close as dread. “And why would you want to do something like that?”
Beg him not to. Keep him safe, some small voice that sounded very much like his own begged from the back of his head.
Lestat offered Louis a little tip of his head. “Everyone has read your… meticulously edited interview.” He paused for a fraction of a second in which his jaw relaxed and went tense all over again. “Whether you wished for it to happen or not. And I would prefer the world to have my full story if they’re going to have any of it at all.”
Louis pressed his bare feet into the rocks until his soles burned. “The world thinks the interview is fiction, Lestat.”
“The human world, yes. But the vampires—”
“The vampires are pissed enough as it is. Spent months threatening to chop my head off. Pretty sure now they only stopped because you’re out there flauntin’—”
“Do you imagine I am afraid of them, Louis?” Lestat was smiling now, though his eyes were still red-rimmed and damp. Flash of his teeth, popping half the length of his fangs down for just a second to really drive it home. “Let them come for me, make their threats. Ce n'est rien. I only wish to tell my story and perform my music.”
Louis’ head seemed to ring like a big brass bell. A thousand thoughts knocking around inside it, his hands clutching desperate, trying to get a hold on just a single one. “It’s not a good idea.”
Lestat leaned forward, blue eyes shining like distant planets. That devious pink mouth of his curling up in a smile. “I knew you would be angry,” he said, the tone of his voice shifting in a way Louis knew all too well.
“Don’t try and get me to argue with you on purpose right now, Lestat.”
Louis chewed at the inside of his lip. Oh—arguing would have been a very bad idea. Because the fighting would blaze a trail to the fucking and Louis would never try to find his way from the fire again. One taste of the salt on Lestat’s bare skin and Louis would let the whole world burn itself out all around him.
Lestat straightened his back, a look on his face that told Louis he was experiencing a half-dozen different emotions all at once. “Is that what you imagine I’m doing right now, cheri?”
Desire raged along the wick of Louis’ spine. What was this? The old insanity instantly taking hold of him again. He had to stop it now, cut it off at the roots before it could fester. Before he found himself down on his knees crawling through the rocks to Lestat and gladly gulping down every drop of his love. “Sun’s comin’ up soon,” he said in some false, halfhearted attempt at choking off his desire. They still had hours until sunrise. He couldn’t yet feel the draw of the grave in his bones. “So maybe we should just…”
The emotion on Lestat’s face fell away. It was like watching a dark cloud move over him swiftly. “Of course,” he said, gesturing subtly with one big elegant hand. “I will… go back to my hotel. Leave you to your—”
“You can rest here.” The words poured out of Louis without a single thought behind them. A hard lurching sensation in his belly when he thought about Lestat walking out the door. “If you’d like to, of course.”
For a long moment, Lestat said nothing. He only sat there with his hands resting easy over his denim-clad knees. Blue eyes shining and damp. Mouth curling in a subtle smile meant only for Louis. “I’d like that very much, Louis,” he said at last. And stood up. And slowly walked over to Louis.
—
Louis didn’t even think to offer Lestat the guest room. Just led him from the reading room to his own bedroom without a single word about it having passed between them. Lestat’s heartbeat echoing like a promise of itself at Louis’ back all the while.
They stepped inside, and Louis stopped just shy of the partition that lay between the doorway and the bed, its bars not unlike that of a prison cell. Turning to Lestat who now stood beside him, watching his eyes slide over the room that spread out just beyond. Gaze following the stairs leading down to the sunken bed.
“This is where you slept with the gremlin.” It wasn’t a question, really. Lestat’s voice was low and almost absent, like he hadn’t actually meant to say it.
“Yes,” Louis said, nothing more. Though he had to bite at the inside of his mouth to keep from adding—So far apart in the bed there was room enough between us to fit another person. And in that hollow space is where I tucked the shape of you.
Without another word Louis crossed to his wardrobe and fetched two sets of pajamas. Selecting each piece very carefully, giving himself a long moment to breathe, breathe. The blood pounding in his head had reached the point of near-deafening. Their fingers brushing gentle as flint to tinder when he finally crossed back to Lestat and passed him one set of pajamas.
“Merci,” Lestat said with a soft little curl of his mouth. Running his hand along the deep plum silk of the pajamas with his eyes trained on Louis.
“De rien,” Louis said, and turned away before he could no longer fight the urge to lunge forward and sink his fangs into the throbbing artery on the side of Lestat’s pale neck.
He went to one side and Lestat took the other. Each of them walking down the low steps until they stood on opposite sides of the bed. Like they’d done this here in this room before. Like it was a dance they’d rehearsed a thousand times together. Eyes fixed firm on each other. Louis couldn’t bear to breathe or blink.
Lestat set his pajamas down on the bed and Louis did the same. Watched as he shucked his jacket off and it fell to the floor behind him like shedding skin. White t-shirt revealing the subtle contours of his chest just below the thin fabric. The artery in the side of his neck was a siren wailing. Louis couldn’t look away, tried with everything he had to keep his hands from shaking as he reached up and started working open the buttons of his shirt.
They undressed in silence. And when they’d made it down to their underwear Louis allowed himself a moment to feel the thick crest of his own desire so completely it nearly doubled him over. Luminescent skin so close—Louis remembered the velvet glide of it under his fingers as though he’d caressed it only yesterday. Dips of a slender waist he wanted to cradle like treasure in his hands.
Lestat’s eyes slid down him from where he stood on the other side of the bed. The heat of his gaze like flames licking clean down the center of Louis’ torso, and lower. Resting for a good long while on the space where his cock lay soft beneath the thin fabric of his underwear. Louis begged all the blood in him to stay away, to not do to him what it was thinking of doing. If he got hard now he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He’d be sprawled on the bed in seconds begging Lestat to fold him in two.
He knew Lestat could feel it—the maddening drum of his heart. The swell of his desire so thick it was a wonder he didn’t choke. Eyes slipping down Lestat to settle on the outline of his soft cock through thin fabric. He could practically feel the weight of it in his hand, could almost taste the salty splash of pre-come melting on his tongue like communion.
Forcing himself to look away, reaching for his pajamas—burgundy silk dark as pooling blood under a thin wedge of moon. With shaking hands Louis dressed quickly, and by the time he was finished Lestat had done the same. Mourning the loss of bare skin and letting out a deep sigh of relief all at the very same instant.
Pale hair on plum silk-covered shoulders. Louis fought the urge to offer to pull Lestat’s hair back in a French braid for him. Instead—in silence, he turned down the covers and crawled into bed. Nestling his head into his pillow, keeping his eyes on the ceiling as he felt the other side of the bed dip when Lestat crawled in to join him.
Lying on opposite ends with a foot of space feeling like a mile between them. The only sound in the room was their hearts. Something primal deep inside Louis suddenly aching for the comforting dark of a coffin. To be folded in his grave pressed to the body of his lover. His maker’s heart no farther away from his body than his own. No space at all between them, not even enough for a sliver of air to pass through.
“And you prefer this now?” Lestat asked after a long time lying next to Louis soaked in the song of their hearts. “Sleeping in a bed like a human? Sunproof window glass in place of a coffin?”
Louis sighed with his entire chest. “It’s…” Hell every second my skin isn’t pressed to your skin. “What I’ve grown used to.”
“Yes, well…” Lestat’s voice came again after a long moment of silence. The sound of it hushed beneath the drum of his heart. “You have a lovely home, Louis. All that truly matters is that you are happy here.”
Louis blinked at the ceiling. Lestat’s heat seemed to shimmer beside him, a guttering flame beckoning a moth in the dark. Happy. Louis rifled around in the well of his brain—did he even know what that word meant anymore? He was certainly successful and wealthy. He certainly had the promise of eternity stretching out in front of him to the tune of a million nights. He could go anywhere and be with anyone he wanted. Acquire any material object his immortal heart so desired. He would be beautiful forever, in the body of a man in his prime, a fit and handsome thirty-three year old until the day the stars went out.
But happy? Well…
Louis turned his head on the pillow, and Lestat mirrored his motion at once. Happy. He’d been happy in Paris taking pictures, he thought. Well—sort of. Happy in that very particular way he’d shaped himself to be in the wake of thirty years with Lestat. Happy to take his mind off things. Back in that easy beginning, before he’d demanded of himself the impossible burden of perfection. Before the trauma and the grief had gone and ruined everything—hadn’t he been happy to simply take somebody’s picture?
Louis turned on his side, waited until Lestat did the same before he opened his mouth to say—“If I go with you, take your picture…” His belly clenched at the sound of his own words, at the thought of what he was going to allow. The tightrope’s edge he was tottering on. “You gonna think that means we’re gettin’ back together?”
In the dim light, Louis watched Lestat’s mouth curl up. “I will think it means you’re my photographer, Louis,” he said, his voice the softest, deepest rumble of dark. “As well as my friend.”
Louis blinked. The pull of him was too much. The space between them an unbearable thing. Just for tonight—would it matter if he allowed himself to drift a little closer? It wouldn’t be such a big thing, he reasoned. It was quite a common occurrence in this day and age to snuggle close to a friend.
“Lie on your back,” Louis said, their shared blood a wild drum in his head as Lestat complied at once.
He used the iPad on the nightstand to shut off the lights before turning back to Lestat and pushing close. Allowing that invisible cord between them to take up the rest of the slack. Closing the gap until two bodies lay on one side of the bed and Louis could nestle into plum silk so gently. His head on Lestat’s thrumming chest, so close to his heart it was bliss, it was madness. His whole body relaxing the very instant Lestat’s arm wrapped around him.
When he settled, it felt like melting. He shut his eyes. He slung his arm around Lestat’s waist and drew a long, deep breath. Yes—he exhaled slowly. This was okay. This was perfect. He could have it just this once. It didn’t have to be anything more. It didn’t mean he was weak-willed. It didn’t mean he was losing himself.
“We’re not having sex,” Louis said, opening his eyes and gazing up at the sight of Lestat’s face cutting clean through the dark. And he knew in his bones he was saying it more for his own sake than Lestat’s. A gentle plea to arousal to hide itself away. “That’s not what this is.”
“I will be a perfect gentleman,” Lestat said, eyes soft and his mouth even softer with the faintest hint of a grin. “But should I consider this your acceptance of my offer?”
Pleased with himself. Far too pleased. Glint in his eyes in the dark enough to drive Louis to near-madness.
“I’ll take your picture,” Louis said, and shut his eyes. And buried his face in Lestat’s chest before the urge to kiss him had its way. “Try and get some rest.”