Chapter Text
Home.
That had been Louis's first thought when he stepped out of the airport.
I've come home.
Maybe a strange thought to have about a place he's avoided with such careful deliberation for the better part of a century. For decades, now, he's considered New Orleans to be something of a closed chapter of his life. Something he did, a long time ago and somewhere he was, an entirely different person than the one he's become. An anecdote, at most; a story told in past tense to a bright, no-longer-young reporter with a point of view and nothing to lose. Just a part of history.
Until it wasn't, any more.
In truth, he hadn't given much thought to how he'd feel when he arrived until he was already well on the way. It had been such an emotional decision, so rooted in red hot anger and mind-fogging hurt, that he was already thirty five thousand feet in the air before the realisation of where he was really going fully dawned on him. He'd gotten nervous then, a little, or maybe apprehensive is the word. Full of anxious curiosity about how he'd feel when he got there.
And then he'd gotten off the plane, and it had felt like home.
It's the memories that did it, he thinks. Pictures, clear as day, like a movie on the screen.
His father, teaching him how to tie his shoes, as a boy; how to whistle, too and how to catch lightning bugs in a jar.
Mama placing a precious little bundle into his outstretched arms, telling him to “say hello to your baby sister”.
Late nights bleeding into early mornings, watching the sun rise with Paul.
Pulling Lestat into a sheltered alleyway for a moment's privacy, because he was too damn pretty in the moonlight to go unkissed.
Claudia in a new dress, twirling round and round the living room saying “I love it, Daddy Lou!”
Laughter. Safety. Warm. Happy.
But then.
His father, sick and frail and wasting away to nothing in that bed.
Paul, tipping over the edge of that roof. The sickening crack of his body hitting the concrete.
Mama, looking at him as an unwelcome stranger.
Grace's girls, screaming just at the sight of him.
Toe-to-toe with Lestat, yelling uglier and uglier things at each other with the intent of causing hurt; a vicious contest of who can go the lowest.
Fire. Blood. Tears. Falling, falling, falling from the sky.
Claudia.
Home, perhaps, but one full of ghosts.
New Orleans is a haunted house.
Lestat de Lioncourt is not a ghost, but finding him had damn well felt like seeing one.
It had frightened Louis, more than anything. Scared the hell out of him, in fact.
In thirty years together, he'd seen Lestat be a lot of things: friend and then lover; artist and performer; gentleman and monster. He'd seen him run the gamut of emotions, from near-delirious happiness, to violent, white-hot rage, to despondent, weepy sadness. But what he found in that shithole little shack last night? That was something he'd never seen before.
Lestat had seemed…fragile. Small, in a way that Lestat de Lioncourt simply isn't. He's always been so solid, larger than life in a way that is admirable and terrifying in equal measure. He commands every room he's in and takes up space like the Universe owes it to him. Utterly unbreakable. Even when he'd lay bleeding out and dying in Louis's arms, he hadn't seemed quite so vulnerable as last night.
Frankly, it had thrown Louis off. He hadn't exactly expected Lestat to be thriving, but this sorry state hadn't even entered the realm of possibility for him. It had rendered him a little numb, and a little stupid. Made him act entirely illogically and do things he'll probably regret.
For one thing: he probably shouldn't have kissed Lestat. It hadn't been his intention when he came here. Really, it hadn't. Louis had meant it when he said he's companion enough for himself. He hadn't come to New Orleans to rekindle anything romantic. He'd just wanted to let Lestat know that he knows, now; to apologise for being so duped for so long by such a world-shaking lie and to belatedly thank Lestat for what he did. But seeing his maker like that, so close to fractured, had filled Louis with an irrational, all-consuming desire to kiss it better, like maybe the right press of lips-on-lips could somehow unravel a century of trauma and make everything good again. And then in the sickly yellow light of the basement Lestat had been so pretty in his fragility, with his cheeks stained red from his own tears and his lips stained red from Louis's blood, that Louis had caved to the urge.
For another: he definitely shouldn't have let Lestat blow him.
For that one, he has no excuse.
None at all, except that they were both emotionally strung out and not thinking remotely straight and the fact that Lestat, like he always has, looked like sin on his knees. And it's not like Louis hadn't tried to talk him out of it. But Lestat's nothing if not persistent when he puts his mind to something. He's always been convincing.
Louis's just a little worried that he might be sending…mixed messages, is all.
Especially now, on the following night, when they're standing at the top of the basement stairs, assessing the damage to the rundown little house. Louis had sort of intended to talk as soon as possible after they woke up; tear off the proverbial Band-Aid and get the awkward, uncomfortable part over with. But then Lestat had looked at him with such sweetly earnest awe, smiled softly and whispered “I thought I'd dreamed you”, and Louis didn’t have it in him to do anything but tuck an errant strand of blonde hair into place and reply “not this time, mon cher”.
So they haven't talked. Haven't said a word to each other, in fact, since that little exchange. They're standing amongst the rubble and debris that the storm wrought while they slept. Lestat is pressed close, shoulder-to-shoulder and he's holding Louis's hand like a child might, as if he's afraid that he might bolt again if he doesn't cling on. Louis is letting him, because Lestat still looks like a stiff enough wind could shatter him entirely and Louis doesn't know what else to do about that. And they haven't talked.
Eventually, Lestat breaks the silence.
“Honestly, it might be an improvement,” he says. An attempt at humour, even if his voice quivers with it.
Louis laughs anyway; a brief huff of a thing, exhaled through his nose.
“I got a hotel room we can go to,” he offers. It's probably unwise to take Lestat back there, probably doesn't help the mixed messages of it all, but Louis can't leave him here. Not when he doesn't know if he has anywhere else to go. “Do you wanna…get some stuff together?”
It seems a silly thing to ask, really. The basic structure of the house is largely intact, but the windows are all shattered completely away. They're ankle-deep in shattered glass and broken down debris, all soaked through with fetid rainwater. Even if Lestat has worldly possessions in this hellhole, it's unlikely any of them survived.
Predictably, Lestat shakes his head.
“I have all I need,” he assures, stroking his thumb emphatically over Louis's knuckles.
Louis swallows a lump in his throat. He should probably unmix those messages.
Not right now, though.
Hotel, first.
Mercifully, the aftermath of the storm means the streets are sparsely populated. They must make quite a sight, right now: wandering through post-hurricane detritus hand-in-hand; Louis, sleep rumpled in yesterday's outfit and Lestat, barefoot and unkempt in his ratty old robe. The girl on the front desk certainly seems startled by their arrival, though she at least has the decency to immediately rearrange her expression into one of demure professionalism and to offer a polite “good evening, gentlemen” instead of actually voicing what she's thinking.
Lestat tries to kiss him again, once they're in the room. Louis, on instinct, turns his head, so that it lands on his cheek instead of his lips.
That seems to be enough to unmix the messages.
For a second Lestat looks confused, and then hurt, and then resigned. He sighs, soft little ah breathed out in begrudging acceptance.
“You should take a shower,” Louis suggests, because that feels more polite than you look like you've been buried for three quarters of a century and you smell even worse. “Water pressure here is real nice.”
“A shower,” Lestat repeats, limply. “Right.”
He lingers for just a second, like maybe he's gonna ask Louis to join him, then obviously thinks better of it. He vanishes into the bathroom, and gives Louis the time to gather up his thoughts.
First thought: coming here probably wasn't one of his better ideas.
He had to get out of Dubai; that much, at least, was sensible. Putting an ocean between himself and Armand was the only way to stop himself from breaking the Fourth Law. He wouldn't have half-assed it this time, either. Laudanum, arsenic and a knife to the throat seem like child's play in comparison to what he's still willing to do to avenge Claudia.
Twisted part is that Armand, sycophant that he is, probably would've let him.
So leaving had been the sensible option.
Leaving for here, though? Straight back to New Orleans? Straight back to Lestat?
Maybe not so much.
Love makes you stupid.
He'd known it was true when Claudia said it, and he damn well knows it's true now.
Second thought: what's done is done. Louis is here, even if he probably shouldn't be, and he can't very well undo that now. It makes no sense to dwell on the coulda, woulda, shoulda of it all. Best just to take everything in stride and try to move forward accordingly.
Which brings him to his third thought.
How does he move forward with this?
Confused as he is, there's one thing crystal clear: barrelling back into companionship because of lies and trauma and the trappings of preternatural bullshit isn't on the table. Louis is now batting 0 for 2 on that front, and he's not eager to make it 3. It'll be good for him, to be on his own for a while. He doesn't need a full-blown companion right now.
However.
Last night had felt…right, somehow. Wrong, too, in many ways, and confusing as hell to boot. But there was something about falling into coffin with Lestat; about wrapping around each other and waking up this evening to a mop of blonde curls in his face; about the familiar wet, soft clutch of his maker's mouth. It was like some piece of Louis, knocked loose long ago and floating aimlessly for the best part of a century, had slipped back into place.
Daniel Molloy probably has a word for that feeling. Some starkly human concept like trauma-bonding or codependency, that explains in the very name of it why it's a bad idea.
Louis won't fall back into bad habits. He can't.
But maybe.
Maybe he can fall back into something.
He's not the person he was 77 years ago. He's willing to bet Lestat isn't either. Maybe, with the proper time and some distance between, these newer versions of themselves can have something…better.
Love makes you stupid.
When Louis hears the shower shut off, he busies himself in the kitchenette of the suite, dumps out a thawed bag of B- into two of those shitty little hotel mugs. It's a paltry substitute for fresher blood, but needs must, and he already pulled enough strings getting the bagged stuff here unquestioned. Besides, he doubts Lestat will have any protest. Even frozen-and-nuked human blood is like a luxury after decades of rats, and Louis knows that from experience.
A cloud of steam follows Lestat out of the bathroom. He looks more like himself in a clean hotel robe with that layer of grime scrubbed away; comfortingly so, in fact. The vision of him freshly bathed, wet tendrils of golden blonde plastered to his cheeks, smelling of Louis's own shampoo…it's straight out of those early days at Rue Royale. The good ones, before everything went so drastically and rapidly south.
Louis dutifully ignores the pinkish remnants of tears that still cling to Lestat's eyelashes as he slides one of the mugs over the counter.
“It's human,” Louis answers Lestat's curious look. It morphs into one of shock, just for a moment, then settles into a smirk.
“You got busy while I was in the bathroom, hm?” Lestat guesses.
“I don't kill people,” Louis shrugs. “Haven't for over twenty years. I buy it.”
The shock is back, tinged with amusement.
“How honorable, mon cher,” Lestat teases. “How modern.”
He takes a sip from the mug and immediately let's out a satisfied little sound, his eyes fluttering shut, just like they do when he–
“We gotta talk,” Louis says, promptly shaking that image from his mind.
Lestat nods as he perches on one of the barstools.
“Yes,” he agrees. “We have so much catching up to do. How is Armand? Still a wretched little gremlin, I presume.”
A line of tension forms in Louis's jaw.
“I don't wanna talk about him right now,” he says, a little more vehemently than he intends.
A beat of silence.
Then.
“Why didn't you tell me, Les?” He asks. “And don't give me that ‘I knew you'd figure it out’ bullshit. Why didn't you say anything at the time?”
Lestat sniffs, then shrugs.
“You wouldn't have believed me,” he says, simply.
Huh.
He's kinda got Louis there.
“Yes, I would,” he protests anyway.
Lestat smiles, sad and sweet.
“Non, beau,” he says, gently. “You wouldn't. You hated me, and I deserved it. You'd have taken his word over mine. I had to let you figure it out for yourself. Je n'ai pas eu le choix.”
He's right. Of course he is. They both know it.
“Out of interest,” he continues, tapping a nail against the side of his mug in a facsimile of nonchalance. “How did you figure it out?”
There's another question, there, underlying: what the hell took you so damn long?
“I had a little help,” Louis confesses.
Lestat looks surprised by that.
“Oh?” He prompts.
“Bright young reporter named Daniel Molloy,” Louis tells him. “He kinda nudged me in the right direction.”
“A reporter?” Lestat cocks his head, curious.
“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “Kinda a long story. I met him in a bar in California in ‘73. I offered him an interview, he accepted. We got a little too high, things got a little… out of hand.” Polite way of saying it, Louis thinks. Lestat looks pained, like the thought of Louis's suicide attempt hurts him, too. “Nothing ever came of that interview, but lately I kinda got an itch to finish what we started, and he agreed he wanted to write a book about me. He flew out to Dubai a couple weeks ago. I think–” Pause. Heartbeat. Shuddery breath. “I think the pieces were always there. Daniel just helped me put them all together the right way.”
Lestat is quiet for a long moment, like he's processing what he's just heard.
“I must find this Monsieur Molloy,” he says, eventually. “To thank him. Perhaps I'll send him flowers.”
Louis huffs a laugh.
“Yeah, well, you might wanna wait ‘til the book comes out before you do anything rash,” he says. “You're a pretty heavy feature.”
“And a most flattering portrait it will be, I'm sure,” Lestat says. Sarcasm, tinged with resentful sadness. He flips his damp hair, strikes a half-hearted pose. “Lestat de Lioncourt: handsome devil, world-class lover and the finest performer who ever lived. That's the gist, non?”
“Yeah,” Louis sighs. “Yeah, something like that.”
There's a tense moment of silence. Then, suddenly Lestat is laughinh and it warms something in Louis that had been cold for a very long time. Before he even realises it, Louis is laughing, too. It feels so easy, the moment. Light and simple and generally good, like it was in those early, hazy days when they both laughed a whole lot more.
Apparently, Lestat feels the same.
“I've missed you, cher,” he says, on a sigh.
I missed you, too, Louis thinks.
“I meant what I said,” Louis says. “I'm companion enough for myself.”
Lestat starts to say something - maybe a protest. Louis doesn't let him.
“But,” he pushes on. “I…want you back in my life.”
He doesn't realise quite how true it is until it's out there.
“You do?” Lestat asks, and it's so sweetly earnest that Louis has to take a second to steel himself, else he'll start crying too.
“I do,” he confirms. “But it can't be like it was. We can't put each other through that again.”
“Of course,” Lestat says, emphatically. “Louis, of course. I wouldn't- I–never again–”
Louis shushes him, softly, laying his hand over the back of Lestat's.
“Not just you,” he says. “We both fucked up. We hurt each other.”
Lestat sighs, staring at their hands.
“Monstrous us,” he says.
“Monstrous us,” Louis agrees, with a tight little smile. “But…we don't have to be. Right?”
“Right,” Lestat says, like he isn't really sure.
“I'm not gonna stay Stateside. I think a little space will be good for us,” Louis says, slowly. “Some physical distance, help us set proper boundaries with each other.”
“Boundaries,” Lestat repeats, like the concept is brand new to him. “Distance.”
“Yeah,” Louis presses on. “And we can work on… communicating better, too, right? No more hiding shit from each other. No more lying. No more letting shit fester until it turns into a big blow out fight.”
“Communicating,” Lestat murmurs, a crease pinched between his eyebrows.
Louis huffs.
“There an echo in here?” He teases.
Lestat shrugs. He looks for a moment like he's thinking hard about what to say next.
“I'll take you whatever way you'll let me have you, cheri,” is what he settles on. “And if distance and boundaries and communicating is what you want, then that's what I'll give you.”
Louis gives his hand a grateful squeeze.
“I'm leaving tomorrow,” he says, with a finality. “But I got this suite booked for another two weeks. You stay here while you’re getting back on your feet, okay? I'll talk to my guy at the blood bank, get some more bags dropped off for you.” Louis pointedly ignores the look on Lestat's face at that. “And if you need help finding somewhere more permanent to live, I got pretty good real estate connections, I can put you in touch with–”
Lestat quiets him with a dismissive wave of his free hand.
“Leave it with me, I'll arrange something,” he insists.
“You sure?” Louis challenges. Lestat scoffs, gives him a look.
“I'm a big boy, Louis, I can take care of myself,” he says, haughtily.
“Can you?” Louis asks, without really meaning to. He hardly thinks he can be blamed, though. Not after what he saw last night.
Lestat scowls for a second, then relents with a sigh.
“I experienced a…blip,” he says. “An uncharacteristic and momentary lapse in my ability to endure. But, no more. I feel better, now.”
Louis isn't convinced. It must show in his face, because Lestat flips his hand to grasp Louis's fingers, bringing them up to his lips and pressing a soothing kiss to his knuckles.
“I'll be fine, Saint Louis,” he whispers, like a prayer.
“Yeah?” Louis asks. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Lestat agrees, releasing Louis's hand to flick his hair and flash a dazzling smile. “As the young people say on their online websites: the bitch is back.”
A laugh bursts out of Louis at that.
“Well, that's troubling,” he says, but the jab is half-hearted. He sighs. “We'll be fine, too. We've got forever, right?”
Lestat smiles.
“We've got forever,” he agrees.
Notes:
french translations for this chap:
Mon cher - my dear
Non, beau - no, beautiful
Je n'ai pas eu le choix - I had no choice.
Cheri - darling
Chapter 2
Notes:
rip Anne Rice you would have hated the way i have taken your auxiliary characters and made them my OCs
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eighteen Months Later
All things considered, a year and a half is not a long time.
Even in a mortal lifetime, it's little more than a drop in the bucket, really. In the endlessness of immortality, it's even less; infinitesimal, barely a blink of the eye.
And yet, as Louis is learning, a lot can happen in eighteen short months.
To begin with, Lestat really has bounced right back, just like he’d said he would.
Louis had left him in the hotel with some spare clothes and his number scrawled on a piece of paper because Lestat didn't have a phone for him to put it in. By the time he'd landed in Dubai again, he had a string of text messages from his maker and a series of questions (best left unanswered, most likely) about how he'd sourced one and set it up so quickly.
They've fallen into something of a habit of electronic communications in the time since. Or, rather, Lestat has made a habit of it. He texts Louis daily, occasionally with something important to say but usually with something much more ephemeral; a pithy observation about millennials or a running commentary on what he's doing with his evening or a joke he definitely stole from the Internet but will insist on taking credit for. Louis does respond, most of the time. Even if it mostly is just with an emoji or a ‘thumbs up’ reaction.
The day Lestat had discovered voice notes had sort of felt like a Point of No Return. Alongside the daily slew of text messages, Louis is now also in regular receipt of extended verbal memos, as long as podcast episodes, often with Lestat losing his thread and switching topics completely halfway through. Louis kind of thinks he just likes having an excuse to talk at length. Not that Louis is complaining, exactly. He's always liked the way Lestat's voice sounds, even through a tinny iPhone speaker. If he plays those voice notes in the background when he's feeling sad or lonely or…taking a little time for himself…well, that's his own business.
They call, too, on Facetime, once or twice a month. That's where Louis has really been able to see that Lestat is getting his shit together. He looks as well as he ever did, and Louis was given a very in depth virtual tour of Lestat's new apartment, and walked thoroughly (meticulously, painstakingly) through the whole interior design process. He's been given a handful of fashion shows–try on hauls, Lestat calls them–and taken along on countless walks through the city. He got the first look at the sleek black Porsche and the vintage Harley Davidson Lestat bought the moment he got his hands on a driver's license. He's also watched, in real time, as his maker has fallen in love with the twenty-first century.
It's not surprising, really. Lestat always was fascinated by innovation. Even a century ago, he'd been enthralled by new gadgets and gizmos and trinkets that he could fill their shared space with. His obsession with technology was sort of inevitable, really. As was his affinity for social media. Instagram seems to be his favourite, which figures, given how it rewards shameless vanity. Louis has never bothered with it before–always preferred to keep his online presence strictly to the professional realms of Gmail and an obligatory Linkedin page that he hasn't even looked at since some mortal PA made it for him years ago–but he'd caved to Lestat's ceaseless, pouting insistence and made a profile about half a year back, to dutifully like the seemingly endless slew of selfies.
Least surprising of all is how much Lestat loves modern music. It's nice to see in him, again; that rapturous passion that had once driven him to slaughter a tenor for the crime of being off-key. With an entire universe of genres and subgenres and artistic niches available to him now, Lestat is more voracious than ever in his musical appetite. It seems like he has a new artist to wax poetic about every week or so, though he certainly has favourites he keeps coming back to.
“Her name is Chappell Roan, mon cher,” he’d solemnly told Louis over video call one night about a year ago, while a danceable synth-heavy pop song had played in the background. “And she is everything to me.”
That part, of course, has carried through to the handful of times they've met in person.
They're rare, those meetings. Even fewer and farther between than their phone calls. Just four of them in eighteen months, in fact; at times when, by coincidence alone (or mostly coincidence, at least) they're scheduled to be in the same city at the same time.
Like in Baton Rouge, when Louis had been meeting with an Art History professor from Louisiana State University to verify the provenance of an alleged undiscovered Cézanne the same week that Lestat had been there to talk to a lawyer about something he was being annoyingly vague about. That time, Lestat had dragged him to a basement show in a dingy little dive bar, and Louis had had more fun than he'd admit, dancing to shitty punk rock music all night.
Or when Louis was in Seattle to wrap up a deal with the art museum there, and Lestat was also there, in pursuit of some piano maker he'd read about online. That time, Lestat had insisted on a late night coffee shop–one of those insufferable, overpriced hipster joints–where he hadn't said a word to Louis all evening, so enamoured he was by the girl on stage with her acoustic guitar.
Or Los Angeles, where Louis was meeting Daniel because he still feels partially responsible for him being inflicted and checks in from time to time out of a sense of obligation. Lestat had been there, too, looking to meet ‘television people’, a fact he refused to elaborate on beyond telling Louis that “all will be revealed in due time, mon coeur”. That time, they'd gone to a piano bar; a dimly lit, plush-carpeted establishment that reminded Louis achingly of New Orleans in the good days.
And then when Louis had been attending a gallery opening at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Lestat didn’t even try to make up a reason for being in New York. That had been a rainy weekend, so much so that they hadn't really bothered going out. Instead, they'd holed away in a hotel room and Lestat had made Louis listen to The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess in its entirety twice, then pouted for over an hour when Louis said he liked Naked In Manhattan and Pink Pony Club and Picture You, but Femininomenon and Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl weren't really to his taste.
They've also fucked every one of those times.
It was something they just sort of fell into, rather than actively planning. They'd kissed on the hotel balcony in Baton Rouge, then kept kissing and touching and then all of a sudden they were having the kind of world-shaking, mind-blowing sex that they can only have with each other. In that regard, it's like they've never been apart. Lestat remembers all of Louis's favourite places to be kissed and bitten and licked like he only learned them yesterday. Louis, himself, has never forgotten how Lestat likes to have his hair pulled, just a little, or the way he fucking melts when Louis drags his nails down his back.
They don't talk about the sex.
They don't talk about a lot of things, really, even though they probably should. They haven't discussed labels, for one: no definition to what they actually are to each other right now. They also haven't really established an end goal. Neither of them seem to know exactly where they're going with all of this. They don't talk about the past, either; not a word breathed yet between them about Rue Royale or Paris or her. There's a nagging little voice in the back of Louis's mind, one that sounds disturbingly like Daniel Molloy, that says “communication and boundaries are going well, huh?”
Louis chooses to ignore it.
So, Lestat is thriving again, and he and Louis are having occasional, amazing sex, and it all sort of happened in a whirlwind.
Alongside it all, the next thing had happened; the book had been published. Faster than usual, apparently, because of Daniel's long-standing reputation and publishing connections. It's something of an unexpected bestseller—two million copies and counting—and Louis is still adjusting to the newfound loss of privacy. Oh, sure, the fact that his face wasn't directly attached still gives him some cover of anonymity—it's not like he's being approached in the street and asked to sign copies or anything. He sees it with business clients, mostly; or, rather, hears it in their thoughts. Some think he's crazy, suffering from some sort of delusional disorder convincing him he's something he isn't. Others think it was a cash grab; some quick, sensationalist money-making scheme that he and Daniel cooked up together over several bottles of wine. Others still will give him the surreptitious once-over, assess the colour of his eyes and the sharpness of his fingernails and the smoothness of his skin and think you know what, maybe…
There's also a cult following of teenagers, he's been reliably informed. The rebellious sorts, with their wild dyed hair and black lipstick, decked out in leather and excessive jewellery, who have come to hero-worship him and Lestat both. Lestat, of course, is utterly delighted by it. Oh, sure, he'd sulked for a couple weeks when the book came out, deeply unimpressed by the way Louis had laid bare all of the worst, most dysfunctional parts of their relationship for all the world to consume. He snapped out of it pretty quick, though, when he'd realised he'd gained a throng of young admirers from it. Not that it's gone to his head, or anything.
The wider vampiric response has been…less favourable, to put it plainly. Others are outraged, utterly furious that Louis has put their business out there so brazenly. He'd received a lot of threats–some of them so graphic they'd startled even him–in the first month or so, though none of them were ever acted on in any significant sort of way. They've started to fade off, now, anyway; in large part, Louis suspects, due to the realisation that most mortals think the book is a work of fiction, and that Daniel is just really, really committed to the bit. Louis's pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot to worry about on that front.
The last thing that has happened–somehow, simultaneously, the least surprising and the biggest change–is that Lestat has joined a band.
He'd announced it quite casually on one of their calls, a few months back.
“I've joined a charming little rock music outfit,” he'd said, in the middle of telling Louis about his week.
“A rock band, huh?” Louis had repeated, amused.
“Oui,” Lestat had confirmed. “We're really very good. Even better, now I'm a part of it.”
“And what’s the name of this band?” Louis had asked.
“Before, they were Satan's Night Out,” Lestat had said, with a grimace. “But that's awful, obviously. So I convinced them to change it.”
“To?”
“The Vampire Lestat.”
“Jesus,” Louis had huffed. “Are there any bounds to your vanity?”
And Lestat–maddening, charming, ridiculous creature that he is–had beamed like it was a compliment.
“None that I've found yet, mon amour,” he'd said.
And the annoying part is, like always, his arrogance seems to be justified. Because, with Lestat in tow, the band has exploded in popularity. Even Louis, with his chronic and purposeful aversion to social media, knows that their first single is trending, and in a major way. He has mixed feelings about the song. It's catchy as hell and Lestat's voice is as good as it ever was, but some of the lyrics feel a little…pointed. Passive aggressive, at best. Actively petty, at worst.
They haven't talked about it.
According to various magazines and websites, Their Vampire Lestat's debut album is the most anticipated of the decade. Louis has watched as Lestat's Instagram following climbed from a handful of people to hundreds of thousands in a matter of mere weeks.
In many ways, it's nice to see. Lestat is absolutely relishing in the attention, of course. He belongs in the spotlight, and he’s taken to the beginnings of fame like a duck to water. It warms Louis, a little, to see him so in his element.
It's also nice, Louis supposes, for those three human kids Lestat shares the band with.
It was a purely innocent curiosity that led Louis to start digging about them. A simple desire to learn more about the people climbing the ladder of fame beside his maker. It certainly wasn't a twinge of jealousy about them monopolising increasingly more of Lestat's time, until he seemed to be with at least one of them more often than not.
The two boys were easy. Lawrence and Alexander Baxter– Larry and Alex to friends– are brothers, NOLA born and bred. Lawrence, the older one, is a former nurse and divorcé. He's still three years out from his fortieth birthday, but he's already graying around the temples and his social media presence is soothingly ordinary. Mostly those ‘motivational quotes’ that millennials seem so fond of and photographs of a huge, slobbering Saint Bernard dog and a small girl who appears on his pages without fail every other weekend. It's easy to glean his routine from his Instagram page alone: he gets coffee from the same place on Calhoun Street every morning before he swims at the YMCA, walks the dog (whose name is Toussaint) along the same route every evening and takes his daughter (whose name is Matilda) for the same pancake breakfast every second Saturday. It's repetitive; a little dull, even. It's also consistent, though. Admirably dependable in a world where so little else is.
Alexander is five years younger, and far less predictable. He considers himself an artist, clearly, and Louis's not above admitting the boy has a decent eye for photography. He's certainly found his aesthetic niche; moody, dramatic landscape shots of the Mississippi river and the bayous of New Orleans, interspersed with avant garde portraits of countless subjects and reposts from a page called Inked by Alex, a sort of online portfolio for his tattooing work. There are sporadic life updates, too. A plethora of hobbies, from watercolour painting to home beer brewing to crochet; pictures of a pretty, elderly woman who has the same warm, dark eyes as both brothers; a big fat orange cat he affectionately calls The Bastard; an ongoing Highlighted Instagram story dedicated solely to song recommendations. An altogether very human existence, albeit one that seems much richer and more exciting than his brother's.
The girl is the most intriguing.
She's 31 years old and extraordinarily pretty for a mortal, and she goes by the moniker Tough Cookie online. That's all the personal information Louis has been able to find. No real name, no indication of where she grew up, not a single mention anywhere of any family no matter how far back he trawls. Louis gets the sense that it's deliberate. Orchestrated. The conservation of obscurity behind the veil of a carefully curated public life. He understands that all too well. Louis wonders what, exactly, her veil is protecting her from. In any case, it makes what she does choose to share that bit more interesting. Lots of outfit pictures (stylish in an edgy sort of way, if not a little garish for Louis's taste) and pleasingly composed photographs of humdrum, everyday things in an attempt to “romanticise her life” – the foam atop a cup of coffee, a smiley face drawn on a fogged up mirror, a bus ticket printed at 11:11. Fleeting moments of insight into a life otherwise unknown.
And Lestat.
Lots and lots of pictures of Lestat.
Lestat sitting at a dining table Louis doesn't recognise, hands held up to the camera to show off an elaborate design painted onto his nails. Captioned “when he finally lets u fix up his creepy fuckin talons 💅💅”
Lestat posing in front of a shop display of wine bottles, beside a sign that reads Fruity French Whites. Captioned “the liquor store knew he was coming”
Lestat looking positively sinful even in a candid, off guard photo, wearing a gauzy white shirt unbuttoned to the navel. Captioned “@lestatdelc cover them up slut”
Lestat front and centre in a photo of the whole band together, commanding the entire composition with an effortlessly seductive gaze. Captioned “one (1) like and i'll leak the album early”
Lestat under a pile of blankets on an old velvet couch, covering his face with one hand and flipping off the camera with the other. Captioned “@TMZ i have raw uncut video footage of him crying at barbie swan lake. zelle me $12billion and it's yours.”
Lestat in a selfie with her. His arm slung around her shoulders, lips against her cheekbone; her smiling directly at the camera. Captioned “when two queens come together to maximise their joint slay 😍”.
Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.
Clearly, they spend a lot of time together, even outside of what the band obligates. And Louis sort of knew that already; he's heard her in the background of phone calls and voice notes a handful of times now. But her Instagram feed is cold, hard proof of the fact that they're together a lot.
Which is fine.
And clearly, Lestat enjoys her company, based on the comments he leaves on her posts.
These talons have never looked better, cherie 💅💖✨️
The liquor store knows I'm THAT bitch 💖
I shall do no such thing. I know what the people want 💖💖
😮❤️❤️❤️❤️. That is me, eating all your likes.
Your ferocious attempts to defame and slander me are NOT in the spirit of Girl’s Night 💖🚫💔. It was Barbie in the Nutcracker.
And a joint slay is of unprecedented proportions it is, darling. The world is not ready. 🧛🏻♂️💖🐭
They're close. That much is plainly apparent.
And it's fine.
Lestat is allowed to have friends. Lestat having friends is a positive. Louis is happy that Lestat has friends. Even close, exceptionally beautiful friends, that he spends most of his time with and kisses on the cheek and calls darling and sends pink sparkly heart emojis via Instagram comments.
Louis isn't jealous.
It's fine.
At least, it will be.
In less than 24 hours, they're seeing each other in person for the first time in months. Back in Los Angeles; Louis meeting with his Stateside lawyer to hammer out the finalities of a real estate deal, and Lestat filming a documentary, of all things, with Daniel, of all people. A sordid little tell-all about the life of a vampire. Daniel's new niche, evidently, though Lestat ardently insists that he was not inspired by the book. Louis's unconvinced. He's even less convinced that the documentary is in any way a good idea, but when has he ever been able to talk Lestat out of a damn thing he set his stubborn mind to? At any rate, it makes everything Lestat has been so frustratingly indefinite about lately–the lawyering up and the hunt for television people–a lot clearer.
Point is, they're gonna be in LA at the same time again, and if Louis knowingly scheduled his appointment to ensure that, then it's his own damn business.
The sex they had on their last meeting was some of the best Louis ever remembers having. With anyone. Ever. In either of his lives. Truly life-altering, awe-inspiring stuff. One for the record books, really. And frankly, his own right hand and some racy FaceTime calls just don't compare.
He's…not excited, per se. Just looking forward to it. The fact that he bought new underwear recently is because he needed to, not because he thought they'd be sexier. The fact that they're red is because Louis likes red. Nothing more.
Lestat seems more excited, anyway. Though that might have more to do with the anticipation of being on camera than anything, if the painstaking way he's curating his filming outfits is any indication. He's roped Louis into helping with that mammoth task; had pleaded via text for Louis to video call because you know fashion so much better than I do, mon amour.
Damn guy always did know how to get his way.
“Before you start,” Louis had asked, when he'd answered the call thirty minutes ago. “Are you asking for honest opinions on the clothes, here? Or do you just want me to tell you how good you look in everything?”
“Well, that would be honest, cheri,” Lestat had replied, all faux-innocent sincerity and sweet little smile. “I do look good in everything.”
He's spent the past half hour proving himself right.
It's gone like this: Lestat has propped his phone on the bookshelf by his bedroom door, giving Louis a good view of most of the room. He's been dressing and undressing, in full view of the camera, in outfits fished out from a haphazard pile on the bed. And Christ, what outfits they are. Tight, buttery leather and skimpy lace; painted-on denim and flowy, gauzy chiffon; everything, in every colour, tailored perfectly for Lestat's body. There's a seductive androgyny to every look, something that toes the line of masculine and feminine. It's so sexy, so incredibly Lestat, that it makes saliva pool in Louis's mouth and his pants feel a lot tighter than they did when he put them on earlier. He thinks he's hiding it pretty well, though. He's managed to keep most of his comments about the clothes, at least.
This last outfit is the one that's hardest to focus on. Black leather trousers that fit like they're molded to Lestat's body and a sheer black buttoned shirt, just opaque enough to provide an illusion of decency, chopped short at the hem to show off a sliver of midriff. It's downright ethereal on Lestat. Or, it would be, if not for the coat he tosses over it. Gaudy, ostentatious thing it is, with feathers at the sleeves, in an eye-stinging shade of acid green that does absolutely nothing for Lestat's colouring.
“I'm not sure about that one,” Louis muses. “Chartreuse kinda washes you out.”
Lestat huffs, sniffing haughtily and smoothing his hands down the front panels of the offending garment.
“It's not chartreuse,” he replies, indignant. “The modern parlance is Brat green.”
Louis can't help a laugh.
“Well, then, statement rescinded,” he said. “Brat green? Perfect for you, mon cher.”
Lestat grins, the picture of smug victory.
“I knew you'd understand,” he croons, twirling so the jacket swings around him. “So it's a yes?”
“Yeah, sure, wear it,” Louis concedes. “You know how hot you look.”
“I do,” Lestat agrees. “Wanted to hear you say it, though.”
Louis rolls his eyes, fondly put upon.
“Yeah ‘cause that weak ego of yours just needed a little boost, huh?” He teases.
Lestat huffs out an affectionate little laugh as he picks up his phone and flops backwards onto the bed. It's not the most flattering angle in the world, but it makes his hair fan out under him like a halo. Louis is instantly reminded of the last time they were both in LA, of Lestat similarly laid out on the floor of their hotel bathroom, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, throat exposed, ankles locked around Louis's waist while he–
“Ten o'clock, non?”
The image is disturbed by a voice from Louis's phone. Blinking, he clears his throat.
“Sorry, what was that?” He asks.
Lestat smirks, like he knows what Louis was thinking about.
“Tomorrow evening,” he clarifies. “You land at ten o'clock, don't you?”
“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “That's right.”
“And you're sure you don't need me to pick you up? Because it's no problem, I can just—”
“It's fine,” Louis insists, bristling a little. This makes the third time they've had this conversation. It's one of those things Louis feels should be a boundary. Texts and calls are one thing–those are perfectly within the realm of platonic. Even the sex doesn't have to mean anything. The millenials call it friends with benefits for a reason, after all. But a ride from the airport feels like a little…more. Like it crosses that line from friendly to romantic, and it's a line that Louis is trying his damndest to maintain. “I already arranged a car.”
Something flashes across Lestat's face; something like he wants to complain, or argue, or spin out over not getting his way. It only lasts a fraction of a second, though, so quick a mortal man might have missed it. Then his expression smooths into a reluctantly accepting smile.
“Okay,” he says, and if his voice is strained, Louis pretends not to hear it. “Then I will see you at the hotel.”
“See you at the hotel,” Louis agrees.
***
It's ten-thirty-five on the dot when he arrives.
The hotel is one of those sleek, minimalist, modern buildings, that this city is full of; all steel and glass with a sea view. Huge windows reflect the night sky like a mirror. Pretty, Louis thinks, if in a painfully twenty-first-century sort of way.
The lobby is a hub of activity at this hour, thronging with trendy young guests calling Ubers for their nights out, or heading to the overpriced hotel bar, which is famous for elaborate cocktails which look pretty for Instagram but probably don't taste like much at all. Even in so dense a crowd, Lestat sticks out like a beacon, radiant in a way that nobody else around him is. He's lounging on one of the ridiculous, overstuffed couches, casual in dark jeans and a white t-shirt but still somehow the best dressed in the room. His hair is swept back from his face by a pair of sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and Louis has to take a steadying breath before he goes over.
“Hello, Lestat,” he says, as he stops beside the couch.
“Louis!” Lestat is on his feet immediately, pulling Louis in for a hug that squeezes like I missed you. Louis squeezes back just the same.
When Lestat pulls away, before Louis can say anything, he's being hugged again. Less intently, this time, and by somebody much smaller and more fragile, but so suddenly that it catches him off guard.
Tough Cookie is somehow even prettier in person than she appears in photographs; all sharp features and smooth, glowy skin and soft, thick hair that she wears to her waist. She's a lot more dressed up than Lestat is, in flared trousers that sit low on her hips and a top that is more “bra” than “shirt” and a long faux fur coat that is really too thick for the California heat. She smells like vanilla and caramel and pistachios, and she's decked out in stacks and stacks of silver jewellery.
Louis thinks he might hate her.
“Oh my God,” she says, brightly, smiling at Louis like she's genuinely ecstatic to meet him. “The man, the myth, the legend, right? You know, somehow you're even hotter than he made out. And trust me, he made you sound real hot. It’s kind of all he talks about.”
Beside her, Lestat laughs, slinging an arm around her and tweaking her nose like he's chastising a puppy.
Louis definitely hates her.
“Cookie is trying to embarrass me,” Lestat says. “She forgets I have no shame.”
“That's not true,” Tough Cookie counters. “If I was trying to embarrass you I'd specifically bring up that one night when you got white girl wasted and started crying about his–”
“So,” Lestat cuts her off loudly, a flush to his cheeks. “Louis. How was your flight?”
Tough Cookie laughs, flashing Louis a conspiratorial wink.
He wishes she wouldn't.
“Good,” he tells Lestat. “Long.”
“Ah,” Lestat sighs sympathetically. “Jet-lagged, cher? That's okay, you can rest once we get to the room, if you like.”
“I don't think rest is a word I'd use for what you two are gonna be doing in that room,” an approaching voice says. Alexander has come over, a stack of key cards in hand. His brother is directly behind him, and gives him a light slap to the back of the head as he tuts.
“Dude, you have just met the guy,” he chastises. “Don't be fucking gross.” He rolls his eyes as he turns to Louis, offering his hand to shake. “Larry Baxter, nice to meet you. That's my twerp little brother, Alex. Heard a lot about you, man. All good, I promise.”
Louis half wishes he could say the same. As it is, he figures I know a lot about you too because I spent an evening scrolling all the way back to the start of all of your Instagram profiles probably falls well outside of the realm of acceptable social niceties. Instead, he just shakes Larry's hand and says it's nice to meet him too.
“Sorry about these assholes,” Larry says. “I swear, it's like trying to work with a bunch of teenage hooligans sometimes.”
A collective sound of protest comes up from the other three.
“Like you'd have us any other way,” Lestat teases.
“Yeah,” Tough Cookie chimes in. “You know you love us, really.”
“We make your life richer,” Alex tacks on.
Larry rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he's grinning the whole time.
“Yeah, yeah, you guys complete me or whatever,” he says. “Does that mean you're all gonna split the Just for Men bill when you turn me fully gray by forty?”
“Nonsense, dear,” Lestat tuts. “You'll be bald long before that ever happens.”
Larry responds by flipping him off, then stretches and barely stifles a yawn.
“Well, I hate to be rude,” he says. “But unfortunately we aren't all unholy creatures of the night. I'm gonna go get some sleep. Great to finally meet you, Louis. See you guys tomorrow.”
With that, he dashes over to catch the open elevator and is gone. Alex looks down at his watch (pretty, but fake, Louis observes) and then back up at the group.
“I got that thing at that bar at twelve,” he says. “Think I'm gonna go take a lil disco nap first.” Then, he reaches out and touches the small of Tough Cookie's back and says “You coming, babe?”
It catches Louis's off guard: Alex had made absolutely no protest at her and Lestat hanging onto one another. In fact, he hadn't acknowledged it at all. A quick sweep of his thoughts reveal no jealousy, no fury, no elaborate fantasies of offing Lestat for putting hands on his woman. Either this boy is the most oblivious person who ever lived, or there's some sort of arrangement at play here. Louis isn't sure which one he'd prefer.
“Sure,” she says, unpeeling herself from Lestat's side and giving him a kiss on the cheek. She leaves behind a smear of pink, sparkly lip gloss. In a show of great restraint, Louis does not immediately reach out to wipe it away. “Later, Drac. Nice meeting you, Louis.”
“You too,” Louis lies.
“À bientôt, petite souris,” Lestat says, kissing his own fingers and pressing them to her forehead. And then, audacious fucking beast he is, he winks at the man beside her. “Goodnight, Al.”
And then they're gone as well, leaving Lestat and Louis alone in the crowded lobby.
Lestat moves a little closer, settling his hands on Louis's hips. Louis has half a mind to push him away, put distance between them and insist that this visit stays fully clothed. But then Lestat's lips are on his, gossamer light; the teasing promise of a kiss.
“Shall we go to bed, too, mon trésor?” he asks, in a whisper that is just for the two of them.
Louis breathes out, shuddery and slow.
“Yes.”
Notes:
louis: i am NOT rushing into getting back together with lestat we are taking it slow and i am going to be very normal and casual about him
also louis, when lestat is vaguely affectionate with somebody else: *exploding them with his mind*
also 'lestat de lioncourt emoji overuser' is canon to me
the smut is coming next chapter beloveds who is excited!
french translations:
Coucou - hi (very informal, mostly used for family and close friends)
Cheri/cherie - darling
Cher - dear
Mon coeur - my heart
Mon amour - my love
À bientôt, petite souris - see you soon, little mouse.
Mon trésor - my treasure
Chapter 3
Notes:
this is the shortest chapter i think but it's basically 2k words of pure smut so enjoy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He doesn't ask in the lobby, when Lestat gives his hips a gentle squeeze and smacks a chaste little kiss to his mouth, deceptively innocent for what it promises.
He doesn't ask in the elevator, either, when they're joined by an exhausted-looking family speaking to each other in Swedish and are therefore forced to behave. Lestat hooks their pinkies together, slides his thumb under the cuff of Louis's sleeve and sweeps slow, reverent strokes over the thrumming pulse point in his wrist. Louis says nothing.
Nor does he ask when they step off the elevator and Lestat tangles their hands together properly, all but dragging him to a room at the far end of the hallway with an eagerness that Louis can feel coming off of him in waves.
He waits until they're inside, where Lestat pushes the door closed with an impatient and purposeful click, then presses him back against it. When lips find his jaw, he bares his throat on instinct, letting Lestat kiss his way down towards that sweetest spot; the junction where neck becomes shoulder, that sloped, hollow place that always turns Louis's resolve to liquid. It's only when Lestat is almost there, when Louis can feel the cold ghost of his breath on that point of no return, that he finally asks.
“You fucking her?”
Lestat stutters, stalls, stops altogether.
When he pulls back, he has the gall to look confused.
“Who?” He asks, borderline incredulous. “Cookie?”
“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “Cookie.”
Her name feels like a curse in his mouth. He's not sure he means it to.
Lestat is studying his expression, gaze flitting from eye to eye to mouth and back again. Then, slowly, softly, he fucking smirks.
“Does it matter if I am?” He counters.
Louis huffs. Feels his eyebrows pull down into a frown.
“Not to me,” he lies. “Might bother her man, you playing in his face like that, is all.”
Lestat laughs, short and sudden.
“Ah, so it's a noble ire,” he says. “You're concerned for Alex's honour, hm?”
“Not his honour,” Louis protests. “It's just kinda an asshole move if the two of you are–”
Lestat cuts him off with a kiss.
“Jealousy is so pretty on you, baby,” he says, against Louis's lips.
Louis lets himself be kissed, only for a moment, then pushes Lestat away from him.
“Fuck you,” he says. “I'm not jealous.”
It's a lie.
Louis knows it's a lie.
Lestat knows it's a lie.
He could challenge it. Louis half hopes he will. If he laughs again, says yes you are and gives him another kiss, Louis knows he'll fold.
He doesn't.
“Good,” Lestat says, with a shrug and a smile that are far too measured to be genuinely nonchalant. “You shouldn't be. We're not exclusive, are we? It's all…casual, non?”
There it is. That unspoken tension, the thing that has been simmering under the surface of whatever they've been doing the past year and a half. Once upon a time, Louis would have risen to the goading, would've come back with something equally biting and set the ball rolling for one of their screaming matches. Now, though, he doesn't, so Lestat keeps going.
“Maybe I am fucking her,” he says. “But maybe Alex doesn't care. Did it cross your mind that maybe I'm fucking him, too? Perhaps I've got dalliances with them both. Oh, or maybe we all three have an arrangement. Maybe we–”
He doesn't get to finish.
Lightning fast, Louis has flipped their positions, shoving Lestat back against the wood of the door with a hefty thunk and claiming his mouth in a kiss that is more fang than anything else. Lestat doesn't seem to mind, if the way he groans and pulls Louis flush against him by the belt loops is anything to go by. It's hot—painfully, achingly hot—and it pisses Louis off that little bit more.
“Still a fucking slut, huh?” He growls.
Lestat laughs again, breathless and desperate, this time.
“Such a slut,” he agrees.
Louis's hands tangle their way into soft blonde curls and tug, drawing a soft, whimpering moan past Lestat's lips. His head falls to the side, putting the entire strong, sinewy column of his neck on display. It's gorgeous, indecent, positively lascivious, and Louis caves to the temptation to latch on. He's messy with it, rendered inelegant and sloppy by desire as he kisses his maker's flesh hard enough to bruise. He wishes they'd stay, those bruises. Wishes he could send Lestat away tomorrow night with a smattering of lovebites all over his neck; a stark, visible reminder of their coupling. Claim staked. Territory marked.
The thought of it draws a moan out of Louis as he mouths wetly against Lestat's pulse point. He feels a hand come up, cradling the back of his head, pressing gently. Encouraging. No—imploring.
“Go on, sweetheart,” Lestat pants. “Do it.”
Louis does.
His fangs pierce the fragile tissue of skin and muscle like a knife through crepe paper. First, blood: warm and sweet with arousal, syrupy thick and heavy on his tongue. Then, Lestat: flowing like a river through every inch of him. The perfect synchronicity of their heartbeats, the harmony of their breathing; preternatural, impossible closeness, like they're one soul in two bodies, like they're melting together, like there's nothing else in the world–in the universe–but the two of them. It's like they're reaching inside one another, carving out each other's insides and laying them bare for the other to behold. A sanguinary, visceral display of their eternal oneness.
“Fuck,” Lestat gasps, when Louis eventually pulls away.
Like this, he's sin incarnate; pupils blown, breathing heavy, looking at Louis like he hung the moon. There's blood running down his neck in thick, glossy rivulets, soaking his shirt and staining white cotton scarlet. Louis twitches the hem of it with his fingers.
“Take it off,” he says. “Strip, and get on the bed.”
Lestat needs no more encouragement. He's quick and uncharacteristically clumsy in his eagerness to comply; his ruined shirt gets momentarily tangled with his hair, until he tears it away with an impatient huff and he almost trips over his own feet as he shucks off those tight little jeans. It's cute, so achingly adorable that Louis finds himself endeared, amid the general feelings of horny and definitely not jealous, smiling fondly as he makes much smoother work of divesting himself of his own clothes.
They're on each other again as soon as they're nude, all hands and teeth as Louis guides Lestat towards the bed. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, they both tumble downward, still locked in a savage kiss as they're pressed flush together on top of the sheets. As if by instinct, Lestat's legs wrap around Louis's waist, like he wants to keep him there. Like Louis was planning on going anywhere fucking else.
“I fucked a fan, too,” Lestat says, between kisses. “Last week, when we played a bar on Bourbon Street. I took her into the bathroom, after, and fucked her over the sink.”
It's fuel on the fire that is already tearing through Louis, and the growl it draws out of him is debased, bestial, more animal than vampire. He fists one hand in Lestat's hair, uses the leverage to yank his pretty head to the side and runs his free hand through congealing blood, coating his fingers in the sticky wetness of it. With no patience and a distinct lack of gentleness, he hitches one of those ridiculous long, strong legs over his own shoulder and plunges two blood-slick fingers into the warm tightness of Lestat's hole. Below him, his maker gasps, hands clenching with fistfuls of soft blanket as he breathes out a nonsensical string of curse words in French. It only encourages Louis's relentless ministrations and, shortly, a third finger joins the first two.
With Armand, this kind of rough treatment had always been a surefire way to put him under. Always made him go sweet and pliant and good, all heavy-lidded eyes and pouty lips and slurred-out thank you, Maîtres.
Not with Lestat.
With Lestat, it only serves to stoke his own bratty fire; encourages him to keep pushing.
“I also fucked the bar manager,” he says, voice hoarse with passion. “It's how I—ah, Dieu, right there, amour—how I booked us the gig. I blew him in his office and then bent him over his desk and—”
It's as far as he gets. He cuts himself off with a whimpering yelp of surprise as, in one fluid motion, Louis withdraws his fingers, grabs his waist and flips him onto his front.
“Chéri,” he pants, muffled against the pillows.
“You wanna act like a whore?” Louis says, as he grabs Lestat's hips and lifts them so he's face-down-ass-up, back arching by habit alone. “Then I'll fucking treat you like one, mon cher.”
With that, he uses the last of the blood on his hand and the wet bead of precome forming at the head to slick up his own hard cock, before pressing it inside his maker with no warning or preamble. Lestat cries out at the sensation; an inarticulate, ecstasy-steeped yell that can probably be heard at the other end of the hallway, let alone by their immediate neighbours. It's stopped him talking so much, at least, his goading ramblings giving way to wordless, breathy little sounds huffed out into the bed linens. It's okay, though; Louis has enough to say, now, for the both of them.
“That how you're gonna make it, huh?” He asks. “Gonna fuck your way to the top? Use this gorgeous fucking body for what it's best at to get your own way, again?”
Lestat whimpers, gripping at the sheets hard enough that his nails pop holes in the cotton.
“Louis,” he pants. “S'il te plait.”
It doesn't slow Louis down. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“You know, it's really kinda pathetic,” he muses, sliding a hand up the sloping, muscular planes of Lestat's back to grip the back of his neck. “The way you'll just throw yourself at anybody who'll have you. Are you really that desperate for it, baby?”
Lestat just nods, face turned sideways against the pillows, eyes closed, mouth open on an unuttered sound.
Beautiful, Louis thinks.
“Insatiable,” he says. “You'll just take anyone, huh? Anyone who tells you you're pretty? Oh, but I bet they all tell you that, huh? Because you are, aren't you, baby? Always the prettiest boy in the room.”
At that, Lestat sobs, fat, red tears squeezing past shut eyelids and trailing down his cheeks. It's gorgeous, impossible to resist so Louis doesn't. He hauls Lestat upwards, so they're pressed flush, back-to-chest and licks the tears away.
“Tell me, cher,” he says, as he wraps a hand around Lestat's cock and begins to stroke in time with his own thrusts. “Do you ever let them have you like this? Your bandmates? Your bar managers? Your little groupies? Do they get to see you come apart this way?”
“Non,” Lestat huffs, as he turns to mouth wetly against Louis's cheekbone. “Juste toi. Seulement toi.”
Louis's free hand settles on Lestat's chest, where he can feel the hammering beat of his heart, in perfect time with his own.
“All for me, huh?” He says. “Well, ain't I special?”
Lestat nods emphatically, resting his forehead against Louis's temple.
“Oui, je t'aime,” he whispers. “Je suis tout à toi. Toujours.”
In that moment, everything is harmony. Their breath, their heartbeats, even the very movement of the earth itself seem to be happening in exact tandem. It only makes sense, then, that when they come it's together, in perfect sync, like it was meant to be.
It might be moments they lay, breathless and satisfied, in the afterglow. Equally, it could be hours. What's time, after all? All that matters is that Lestat is laying on his chest, face buried against his neck, his breath warm and slowly evening out against Louis's flesh. That's all that's real.
Eventually, Louis pricks his own thumb, smearing the bead of blood that forms over the puncture marks on Lestat's throat and watches as the skin knits neatly back together. Lestat hums gratefully, and kisses his thanks into the underside of Louis's jaw.
“I'm not, by the way,” he says. “Fucking Tough Cookie, I mean. Or Alex, for that matter.”
Louis isn't sure he believes it. Lestat must pick up on it, because he props himself up on one hand to look him in the eye.
“I'm not,” he repeats, firmer this time. “And I haven't. And I won't. You have my word. Besides anything else, they're really into monogamy.”
“Oh,” Louis says before he can stop himself. “You do know that word!”
Lestat scowls and flicks him on the chin, but there's no heat behind it, and it's followed immediately by a soft little kiss.
“I did fuck a fan, though,” he says. “And that bar manager.”
Louis rolls his eyes affectionately, huffing out a little laugh that he kisses into Lestat's forehead. It's all so warm, so comfortable, so easy. But still, Louis can't fully drop it.
“You're close with her, though,” he says.
“My mortals have become very dear to me,” Lestat says, with a fond sigh. “Especially Cookie. She's tenacious, cher, and so very adaptable. She has a capacity for enduring that I haven't seen in a human in over a century. We're…friends.”
“Best friends?” Louis asks. Immediately, Lestat shakes his head.
“You're my best friend,” he says, and it's so earnestly, painfully sweet that Louis thinks maybe his heart stops for just a moment. “But Cookie might be a close second.”
Louis will take that.
“Okay,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind Lestat's ear. “Alright, best friend. What d'you say we get cleaned up and then go take a walk on the beach?”
Lestat beams.
“Sounds perfect,” he says.
Notes:
me 🤝 louis de pointe du lac
being very normal and casual about lestatFrench translations!
Dieu - God
Amour - love
Chéri - darling
S'il te plait - please
Juste toi. Seulement toi - just you. Only you.
Oui, je t'aime - yes, I love you.
Je suis tout à toi. Toujours. - I'm all yours. Always.