Chapter Text
Louis watches the bagel he just bought fall and smash against the pavement between Fifth and Twenty-Second.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Just when he thought the day couldn't get any worse. First, he got chewed out at work. These photos aren’t really working - said his asshole boss. Said he wants them to look cooler. Fresher.
What the hell does fresher even mean, anyway?
Second, his landlord called with a threatening voice, saying he’s two months behind on rent and if he doesn’t fix it real quick, he’ll end up with his ass on a newspaper on the sidewalk.
Sometimes Louis fucking hates New York.
He’s been living in a crappy Harlem apartment for two years, with three roommates. Three roommates at thirty-three is basically humiliation in physical form. A starving salary, a non-existent social life. To scrape by, Louis is always running around on set, shooting commercial gigs, fashion shoots, or magazine spreads.
He never shoots what he wants to shoot - those photos? Nobody gives a damn about them. They don’t pay. And Louis knows for a fact they’re definitely not fresh.
When he moved here from New Orleans six years ago, this was not the original plan. He was just a bright, slightly melancholic photography student back then.
A solid guy—clever, even, sometimes. His professors loved him. They promised him a brilliant future lay ahead.
That didn’t happen. Life in this city is stupidly complicated. Art doesn’t pay, and neither does good photography. Everyone just wants a perfect ass in tight blue jeans and some glossy red lips biting into a hot dog.
God bless America and Jesus Christ, or whatever.
All Louis knows is, this can’t be it. It’s definitely not the life he imagined when he left his hometown and his family behind.
Sure, not everything is bad: at least here he can date whoever he wants, without worrying that his mama’s gonna come at him with a crucifix screaming “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
He cannot help but smile a little, bitterly. Florence can be unnecessarily dramatic.
Well—he thinks, watching the bagel toppings melt into the sunbaked concrete—at least he’s still got his coffee. He hasn’t had a sip yet, not since this morning. The iced cup in his right hand is still pleasantly cold, even in this July heat.
But before he can bring it to his lips, some kid barrels into him at full speed. Louis sees it happening, but it’s already too late. He mutters shit under his breath. The coffee spills all over him, soaking his favorite T-shirt.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
He lifts his head, ready to curse the kid out, tell him to watch where the hell he’s going—but the kid doesn’t even stop. He’s flying down the sidewalk, zigzagging through pedestrians, yelling:
“Watch out! Watch out! Tremble, silly mortals! Monsieur Le Rockstar is back!”
He’s got a fistful of glittery flyers, tossing them in the air as he runs. Louis snatches one mid-flight, curious. The second he reads the first few lines though, a sick, twisting feeling coils in his gut.
He crumples the flyer, tosses it into the nearest trash can, and pulls out his phone. Just like he expected, he sees fifteen missed calls from a certain familiar lunatic.
He rolls his eyes to the sky and quickly dials the number.
“Louis.”
When he answers, Armand’s voice is low, shaky. He might’ve been crying. Possibly on the verge of a full-on meltdown.
“I know already,” Louis says, trying to fast-track the conversation. “Where are you?”
“The Goto,” Armand says, in full panic mode. “Come here. Right now.”
*
By the time Louis steps through the doors of Goto, he’s acutely aware that he looks entirely out of place. A camera dangling from his neck. His wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt clinging to him, paired with worn dark jeans and scuffed Doc Martens are enough to prompt a visible flinch from the maitre, whose expression lands somewhere between disdain and outright horror.
In Louis’s defense, this stop was entirely unplanned. He hadn’t intended to come here today—not dressed like this, at least.
A waitress approaches him with the kind of stiff, brittle politeness that suggests she'd rather be doing literally anything else.
“Sir…?” Her voice is icily formal. “Are you certain you’re in the right place? I’d be happy to direct you to a—shall we say—more appropriate café.”
Louis cuts her off before she can finish whatever patronizing nonsense she’s about to deliver.
“I’m with Armand.”
At the mention of his incredibly wealthy and absurdly loyal friend, the transformation in the waitress’s demeanor is instant and almost comical. Suddenly, Louis is not only welcome, he's worthy of being here. Funny how that works.
He’s escorted by three staff members, presumably not out of courtesy but in a coordinated attempt to shield his presence from the view of Goto’s other, more respectable patrons.
This place has a reputation to maintain, after all: sleek, Japanese-inspired minimalism, handcrafted ice cubes, and cocktails that cost more than Louis can ever imagine. It’s all very refined, very curated, very… fresh.
Not that Louis is the best judge. His idea of winding down usually involves a six-pack and reruns of ‘90s sci-fi on the floor of his skanky bedroom.
He finds Armand tucked away in a secluded corner of the private lounge, hidden behind a paper screen printed with hideously stylized cherry blossoms. Of course.
Louis has to admit he looks like hell. He's wearing sunglasses so oversized they cover half his face, and the table in front of him is littered with crumpled tissues—Louis hopes to God they were only used to dry tears.
With Armand, one never really knows.
He looks up as Louis approaches, mouth dropping slightly open before snapping shut again. He lowers the sunglasses just enough to make eye contact.
“Seriously, Louis? I Love NY? At Goto?” His voice cracks, somewhere between disbelief and judgment.
Louis glances down at the shirt, one of his first purchases after moving from New Orleans—a relic from a time when he still believed in talent and hope and the future.
“What?” he shrugs, dragging a chair over with enough noise to make a couple of servers glare at him. “It’s iconic.”
He drops into the seat across from Armand, who sighs dramatically and slides his sunglasses back up.
He looks shattered, completely undone. Louis wonders for a fleeting second if this level of emotional collapse is truly warranted over...
“He’s back.”
Armand says it in a near-whisper, as though revealing a state secret. But Louis, walking over there, has already heard the whispers, the shouts, the hysteria. People chanting his name like a prayer or a curse. There's been no official announcement, just glittery flyers and one cryptic post from a verified account.
Yet somehow that has been enough.
The fangirls are already weeping in the streets. Indie blogs are dissecting every vague lyric. Teenagers are storming scalpers.
The glitter flyers are everywhere.
Their conversation is interrupted by the same waitress from before, now disturbingly pleasant, who sets down two pristine cups of tea (thirty-five dollars each, Louis assumes) and a plate of desserts that look like they belong in a museum more than on a plate.
“He’s back,” Armand repeats, as if trying to convince himself. A single, quiet tear escapes beneath his oversized sunglasses. Louis frowns.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day that I’d witness something like this, Louis. And yet, here we are. Do you even understand the scale of what’s happening right now?”
Armand’s voice rises with a sudden urgency. He yanks off his sunglasses and practically shouts,
“LESTAT DE LIONCOURT IS RELEASING AN ALBUM—THIRTY YEARS AFTER HIS MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE! THE VAMPIRE LESTAT. MONSIEUR LE ROCKSTAR!”
The servers at the Goto freeze mid-step. No one dares to say a word. Armand’s father owns a petroleum company in Qatar. That tends to shut people up.
Louis blinks, stunned. Armand never yells. He’s never seen him this unhinged, this… undignified. Though, in retrospect, maybe he should have expected this. Armand has been going on about Lestat for years. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. But still.
There’s a long, awkward silence. Armand is breathing like he’s about to pass out. Louis, unfazed, picks up one of the desserts and takes a bite. His stomach has been growling since yesterday.
“You know,” he says through a mouthful of macaron, “I think you really need to get laid. I’m saying that as a friend.”
Fuck, he thinks. That pastry is scrumptious.
“Would you chew with your mouth closed? It’s revolting,” Armand snaps, raising a judgmental brow. He takes a sip of his tea.
“And, seriously? You haven’t touched a man since you broke up with that East Village guy. That was, what, two years ago?”
“We’re not talking about me now,” Louis dodges, knowing full well Armand’s right. He needs to shift the conversation quick. “So, Lestat…?”
At the sound of that name uttered by Louis' mouth, Armand nearly chokes. He repeats, with renewed fervor:
“LESTAT DE LIONCOURT IS BACK! THE VAMP—”
More glares. The maitre sighs audibly. Armand lowers his voice again, still trembling with excitement.
“The new album drops in September. September, Louis. That's two months from now."
Louis nods absently, working through another pastry. He couldn’t possibly care less about the triumphant return of some washed-up rockstar. Even if said rockstar is the object of his best friend’s obsessive... love? Infatuation? Worship? It’s unclear.
“So what?” he mumbles around a cookie.
“So what?” Armand flails his arms like Louis just blasphemed in church. “It’s monumental! A genius of his caliber could put rock back at the top of the charts! So what? Are you insane?”
Louis stares at him blankly. Armand looks terrible. Sleepless, wired. He could use a good night of rest.
Though, Louis realizes, he probably looks just as bad himself.
He shrugs. To him, it just sounds like another aging artist cashing in on nostalgia. He doesn’t blame Lestat de Lioncourt, or his team—it’s a smart move.
Armand, of course, looks personally offended by his indifference.
“Music critics are trembling in anticipation,” he insists. “Women are ready to give him their blood and their virginity. Children will whisper his name in their nightmares. It’s going to be hell on Earth.”
“Oh no, chills!” Louis deadpans. “You should apply for a job on his PR team. Though maybe leave out the part about virginity and nightmares, just saying.”
Armand leans back in his chair, exasperated.
“That’s not even the best part,” he says, suddenly lowering his voice. “There are rumors his team is planning a special event for the album launch.”
He freezes, like something has just struck him. Then, with all the elegance of a man possessed, he bolts upright.
Louis watches him, his expression blank. It might be time—past time, really—to find new friends. Surely there must be one sane person left in New York City.
“We need to go back to my place. Now,” Armand declares, already halfway out of the lounge. Then, calling over his shoulder, “Waitress, put it on my tab.”
Louis sighs, standing too, brushing pastry crumbs off his pants. “Can’t. I’ve got work. I have a shoot in Soho in two hours.”
Armand stares at him like he’s just betrayed the revolution. “Work? Louis, I’m telling you the Vampire Lestat is about to release a new album.”
“Yes. Work. A foreign concept to you, I know,” Louis replies, fully aware Armand won’t take offense. “The Vampire Lestat isn’t covering my rent. Not yet, anyway.”
He cracks a grin, but Armand stays deadly serious. This obsession is starting to get out of hand, even for him.
“What is it this time?” Armand asks coldly. He can be vicious when he wants to be. “An ad for ironing boards? Or a woman in a bird costume that’ll somehow become the fashion statement of the decade?”
Louis’s face remains neutral. “A toaster. Braun.”
Armand manages not to laugh. Probably out of mercy. Louis doesn’t know what feels worse, the fact that his psychotic best friend thinks he is the pathetic one, or the fact that he's probably right.
“Fine,” Armand says at last, far too calmly. “Do your glorious photoshoot. Then,” he adds, with a tight smile, “come to my place. I have news that might just change the course of our lives.”
*
As he makes his way toward Armand’s apartment on the Upper East Side, Louis feels drained. Actually, drained probably isn’t the best word to describe his emotions right now.
Disheartened, dejected, utterly humiliated. That's better.
The toaster photoshoot had been the final nail in the coffin of an already catastrophic day. A total farce.
And the day isn’t over yet.
He met Armand at a fashion event three years ago. The atmosphere there had been uptight and insufferably curated, but at least the champagne was passable. Armand was the only person who’d approached him, and—miraculously—hadn’t immediately judged him for his off-the-rack outfit. He clearly didn’t give a damn about money. Claimed he hadn’t seen his father in over a decade.
Louis, too, hadn’t seen his father in years. Nor his mother, for that matter. His parents weren't really supportive of his inclinations. Florence had given him an ultimatum: kick the habit, or consider himself disowned.
Needless to say, things hadn’t gone well between them.
Louis has been living in New York for six years now. He barely speaks to Grace anymore, too. She’s drifted away, building a life that no longer includes him. Has a husband, he believes. Babies, even. Twin girls.
Armand is the only friend he has left. The only one still willing to tolerate the beautifully chaotic disaster that is Louis’s everyday routine. Probably because he shares that same way of living.
By the time he knocks on the door of Armand’s penthouse—a sleek apartment perched high in a midnight-blue skyscraper—it’s nearly eight. Louis always makes sure he does not turn in empty-handed.
“You brought the noodles!” Armand squeals the moment the door swings open.
The apartment is massive, pristine, with designer furniture carefully chosen and meticulously arranged. Louis is just about to set the takeout on the low coffee table in the living room—their usual dinner spot, in front of the TV—when Armand stops him.
“Not tonight, Lou,” he says, an odd smile spreading across his face as he holds up an expensive bottle of wine.
“There’s something I need to show you. Come.”
They venture deeper into the corridors of the apartment. Louis doesn’t remember it being this large. Armand leads him to a closed door, where a sliver of light escapes from the bottom.
“What I’m about to show you stays between us,” Armand whispers. He pauses theatrically before adding: “Just promise me it won’t ruin our friendship.”
Louis swallows hard, suddenly on edge. He and Armand, despite their mutual attraction to men, had never been into each other. There had never been anything there—and up until that moment, Louis had never imagined there could be.
He almost considers dropping the bag full of food and running away from the penthouse as fast as he can. But he’s starving, and Armand opens the door.
Louis immediately thinks maybe Armand confessing his love to him might’ve been the better outcome.
The room is almost entirely unfurnished, save for a lone couch in the corner, a record player, and a TV resting directly on the carpet. But the walls…
The walls tell a different story.
They’re completely covered in clippings—faded photographs, crumpled posters, handbills, yellowing magazine pages. All of them depicting or referencing one name: Lestat de Lioncourt.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Louis murmurs as he steps into the room and lowers the takeout to the floor. He moves toward a wall. “You’ve completely lost your mind. Oh my god, why didn’t you ever show me this? I didn’t think it was this bad.”
In a flash, the last three years of conversation with Armand come flooding back to him. Lestat this, Lestat that. Lestat again. Oh, here’s something Lestat might’ve done. Or something he might’ve said.
He knew his friend was obsessed, but he hadn’t realized it had metastasized into full-blown mania.
“This him?” Louis points to a postcard featuring a young man, fangs bared, screaming into a microphone. He’s blond, long-haired, blue-eyed. A vision straight out of a gothic fever dream.
Armand nods enthusiastically. “That’s him. Well, a depiction, at least. The Vampire Lestat’s never actually been photographed.”
Louis raises an eyebrow, puzzled. He tears his gaze away from the wall and looks over at his friend—standing dead center in the room with the dumbest expression he’s ever seen painted across his face.
Then, he sighs. “Open that bottle, freak, ” he mutters, settling cross-legged onto the carpet. “I’m gonna need at least two glasses to make it through this conversation.”
*
Two hours later, Louis and Armand are eating cold Chinese takeout, both well past tipsy, dissecting in excessive detail what has come of the Vampire Lestat.
Louis has to admit that, with enough alcohol in his bloodstream, the wallpaper of obsession is starting to look a lot less terrifying. It’s cute—clearly, Armand has some kind of mental health issue, but it’s cute, nonetheless. He’s passionate about music.
“So if his first and only album came out in ’84,” Louis says, chopsticks waving mid-air, “that would make him, what, fifty? No—older.”
Armand scoffs. “You’re completely off, Lou. He was born in 1760. That makes him, technically speaking,…” he pauses, calculating the numbers in his head, “...265.”
Louis freezes, chopsticks suspended above the greasy carton.
“You’re serious?”
He laughs, but a creeping suspicion worms its way into his gut.
“About what?” Armand replies, genuinely confused.
He’s not joking, Louis thinks with great worry. He’s not joking. Jesus Christ. This is worse than he thought.
Fine. He’d play along.
“Right. Of course. Two-sixty-five,” Louis mutters. Well, that's just fucking ridiculous. He sips a generous quantity of that delicious red wine Armand bought before uttering:
“Hot. Vampire daddy, is it then?”
Armand rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he says, swatting Louis on the shoulder. Then, after a beat: “Not that I’d mind, anyway.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—shut up!” Louis bursts out laughing. “Your obsession with older men is disgusting.”
They laugh together, a messy, drunken mess of cackling and noodles. Louis feels the spiral. This is the point where he either sobers up—or drinks much, much more.
He glances at the time. It’s 12:00 a.m.
“I should go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got a cookware shoot tomorrow, and I have to figure out how to make saucepans look fresh. I’m on the fucking chopping block.”
He snorts, but Armand doesn’t laugh.
“What?” Louis blurts out. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times. “I know my job sucks, but—”
“It's not that," Armand's voice is cold. "Well, no—actually, thinking about it, it's also that."
Louis frowns. Something’s off.
"You’re not going to that shoot, Louis.”
The air in the room suddenly grows thick with tension.
“Why not?” he jokes, trying to play it cool—but he’s already thinking about how many exits that penthouse could have. “You gonna kill me? Make a sacrifice to the Vampire Lestat, or something?”
Armand doesn’t answer. He stands and walks to the record player. Presses a button. The disc spins. The needle scratches faintly, then catches. A woman’s voice, soft and precise, begins to speak:
“If you’re listening to this message… congratulations. You are one of five people personally selected by Monsieur Le Rockstar for an unforgettable experience.”
A pause. Louis feels a twist in his gut.
“The record will premiere at Monsieur’s exclusive villa in California, on July 25th. You’re invited for five nights of pure madness, in the company of the most legendary living rockstar.”
“You may bring one guest. There is sufficient space, and Monsieur can be quite permissive. Simply reply to the address from which this vinyl was sent, and we'll make the necessary arrangements.”
“Attention, children of Satan, consider yourself warned: Monsieur is a vampire. Prepare to stay up all night!”
The record ends with a jagged scratch.
Louis stares in disbelief.
“You’re going?” he asks, horrified. “That’s in two days.”
“Of course I’m going,” Armand replies. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Okay…?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Still don’t see how that stops me from going to that shoot tomorrow. Do you need emotional support?”
“Well,” Armand says, as if it’s obvious, “I’m not going alone. You’re coming with me.”
Louis lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.”
Armand isn’t joking. His face is pale, unreadable.
“No. I’ve already sent in your info. To the vinyl sender. In Pasadena, California.”
Louis has never wanted to strangle someone more. California?
“What the fuck are you talking about, Armand? I have a job, for Christ’s sake! I can’t just pack up and go like you do, like some sort of reckless maniac.”
“You'd be fired from that shitty job anyway, Louis.” Armand gestures wildly.
“A fucking cookware shoot. Come on. You’re better than this.”
Louis stares at him, feeling weirdly disassociated from his body.
“I have rent to pay. Bills.”
His chest starts pounding. His vision swims. This is it. This is the heart attack that finally strikes him. He’s not gonna live past thirty-three: his mama has always been right. He is the Antichrist.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” he mutters, pacing the room like a lunatic.
Suddenly, a sharp sound slices through the air. Clack. The pain comes a moment later.
Armand has slapped him.
“You’ve been handed the opportunity of a lifetime,” he growls, jostling him by the shoulders. “Photographing the exclusive premiere of the most iconic album of the century—do you have any idea what that could mean for your career?”
Louis stands frozen, wine spinning in his head. For the first time in years, something stirs in him. A flicker of something dangerously close to hope. Excitement. Relevance.
“Lou, I’m not going alone,” Armand says softly, watching Louis falter. “I’m scared. After all these years idolizing him… what if—”
Louis turns to him, solemn.
“What if he’s ugly?” Armand finishes.
They burst out laughing like absolute lunatics. Louis thinks he might be losing his mind.